Underbelly
by SourCherryBlossom
Summary: Set during Season 5 episode 6, "Parabiosis", right after Jonas walks out, leaving Carrie alone in the Quinncave. Starts with a missing scene.
1. Chapter 1

Carrie stood alone and stunned, watching the door close on Jonas, and on what remained of their relationship. Jonas had said he loved her. But that was over lunch, a few days ago, an eternity ago. Back then, he didn't know the real Carrie - all of her shit, her past, and what he was really getting into. Carrie off her meds, for example. What a fiasco that had been.

But even more difficult for Jonas to swallow had been the risks and dangers of her previous life, and the way she made her decisions. How could she not go to the authorities? Take Quinn to a hospital? It clearly had baffled Jonas. Her strange priorities were too much for a normal person to take.

So, he had gone, and angrily too. Jonas's last words rang in her ears.

"Quinn walked out that door," he had roared, "bleeding to death! To protect you, Carrie. Does that register?"

She knew that, she understood that in her gut, and the consequences and meaning of it almost choked her. She could only stammer out, "Please," but Jonas had left anyway. Maybe for the best, she thought. Certainly for him. My old life is back, and now I poison everything I touch.

In Quinn's lair now, there was nothing but silence. No sick, feverish Quinn, no prickly, silent Jonas. She turned and looked at the blood soaked sheets on the makeshift bed where Quinn had so recently lain.

She walked slowly to the bed, to the side nearest the wall, and sat down. Her eyes had been full of tears since Jonas walked out. Now, sitting close to the groove of Quinn's body on the bed, they spilled down her cheeks.

Her hand stroked the sheet. Was it her imagination that it was still faintly warm? It couldn't be, it had been too long, but she imagined his warmth there all the same. Fussily, she smoothed the sheets up, trying to command control of her emotions. Then, her hand touched the blood-soaked spot. The spot where Quinn had been in terrible pain, wracked with illness and finally bleeding out. Literally spilling his lifeblood for her. She lay slowly down; hand on the blood spot, her cheek on the damp pillow where Quinn's head had been.

"So much blood on your hands," Jonas had said accusingly, during her manic days. How right he was. Now, though, now it was much worse. It was Quinn's blood on her hands. She pulled her legs up, curled into a ball, her hand on Quinn's blood, head on his pillow, and a single gut-wrenching sob came from Carrie's mouth. She let the tears fall.

The pillow still smelled like him. She remembered his smell, had not forgotten it when she parted with him more than two years ago, been comforted by it even as he was smearing his own blood on her face- he certainly was generous with his blood, wasn't he? Even in the depths of her terror and confusion, waking up bound to his bed, she had never really been afraid of him. She had been startled, asked him to wait, but she knew he didn't want her dead. He wasn't going to harm her in any way. He couldn't, she thought. And she had been right.

Later, she had breathed his scent in deep as his head lolled on her shoulder, fading into and out of consciousness, while she bandaged his gunshot wound. "Stay with me," she had encouraged, holding him close. She had never doubted that he would. He always had.

In her heart, she had felt that Quinn was unkillable, that he could never die, not because of something like this. He'd been shot before. They had both been in the shit, so much and for so long, that Carrie didn't believe anything could take him out. But as her tears soaked into his pillow, she realized something could kill him. If he hadn't been so loyal to her, he wouldn't have faked her death, and he wouldn't have taken her to the drop and gotten shot up in the process. If he hadn't cared, he wouldn't have crawled off to die 20 hours ago, in order to remove his body and his life from her world. All to preserve her anonymity, her freedom.

All those years, all the many times he had her back – Langley, Islamabad, and now Berlin – he had been there. Taking better care of her than she did herself. Her gut was tight in a knot, and the tears kept falling. Her hand was slick with Quinn's blood – the closest she could come to still touching him. The most essential meaning of a soldier's life, she thought, dying to make someone else free. Whether they were deserving or not.

She knew it was insufficient, knew that it didn't begin to encompass the meaning of what he had done for her all those years. All the many times he'd looked out for her, at cost to himself. But still, it was all she had. Carrie uttered her apology to the empty warehouse, to Quinn's blood, to the ghost of his consciousness and all her memories of him. She had never given voice to her feelings – whatever they were – and anything she said now was worthless, inadequate. Now speaking to an empty room, this was all she could feel, and all she could bring herself to say.

"Quinn," she sighed, "I'm so sorry."

She had to use whatever time he'd bought her, and put some space between herself and the people who wanted her dead. At least Franny would be safe, she thought. She hoped Quinn would have thought that Franny's happiness made his sacrifice worthwhile.

She had one last contact that hadn't been exhausted. She would take care of a few loose ends, then go see Otto. Carrie sat up and wiped her eyes. Swiping open her phone, she began to delete her pictures and contacts, and prepared herself to disappear. As she flipped through old pictures, she came across one she hadn't seen for a long time: a photo of herself and Quinn at Maggie's, with Lockhart and Saul.

It was taken at Maggie's house on the patio, the night of her Dad's funeral dinner. Considering the occasion, Carrie herself looked relaxed and happy. She remembered Maggie jollying them into the frame, taking Carrie's iPhone and saying, "Come on, you guys, how often are you all together?" She was right about that, it wasn't often. Quinn held a paper cup of whiskey, as had they all. Saul smiled at the camera, sanguine, at that time, one of her most trusted friends. Lockhart's lasagna stood cooling on the table: it would be devoured by her father's sobering-up friends an hour later, she recalled.

The photo captured Quinn looking not at the iPhone, but across the table at Carrie. She had seen that look on his face later that night, when he'd kissed her before he said goodbye, and drove off. There was more than friendship in it, she knew that now. The camera had captured a heated glance that left no doubt in Carrie's mind about his feelings for her. As if she needed more proof than the blood on this bed! The weight of that feeling had been in his heart when he'd exited this building, on Jonas's watch, the previous night. Going off presumably to disappear, or die. So Jonas said.

It hit her like a lightning bolt. What in God's name was she thinking? Jonas didn't know Quinn, he didn't know _how_ to look for Quinn. Calling police stations, calling hospitals, that's an amateur night search plan, Carrie thought. That's suitable for finding drunks and tourists, but not a trained operative. Jonas is smart, but he has no training. He's not an agent, and he wouldn't know where to begin to search. He doesn't know Quinn. Who might still be very much alive.

 _He's out there, somewhere, hopefully still alive, somewhere in the underbelly of Berlin_ , Carrie thought. _And even if all I do is recover his body, I owe him this much._ It was a terribly jarring thought, but it got her moving. The clock was ticking.

Standing up, she looked around the room for any and all traces or clues that might help – but no, it looked like he'd hobbled out of here, patched up but bleeding, with the clothes on his back. She scanned the floor for a blood trail, but could see none. He was too cagey for that. She was moving fast now, her decision made. She found Quinn's trusty sidearm, with a fully loaded clip next to it, sitting on a case near the sink near a scattered pile of loose Plasticuffs. She grabbed the weapon, then loaded the clip and shoved the handgun into her bag. Not ideal, but it would have to do until she got a holster. If she was going to find Quinn, she'd need to move fast, because his trail was getting cold.

 _Jonas doesn't know Quinn_ , she thought, hurrying towards the door. _He has no idea how to look. But I do_.


	2. Chapter 2

The night before. Quinn's adventures at the water's edge, set at the end of season 5 episode 5, "Better Call Saul"

Quinn had tried to hurry, tried not to be seen, but it was much slower going with an infected gunshot wound. He staggered to a halt, and sat down on the blacktop. He had made it.

It was after midnight. Amber streetlights reflected off the water's surface, rippling with a light evening breeze. Quinn's glassy stare angled down at it, his jawed clenched as he sat down at the water's edge. Bending over in pain, he arranged himself carefully on the concrete, conserving his strength, and leaned on the cinderblock next to him.

No other way. No way out. His breathing was shallow, and came more quickly. He had a fever, a high fever. His head hurt. His back and abdomen throbbed like someone had jammed a knife into them, right up to the hilt. Squinting down at the black water, he saw that a slick of oil had rendered the surface opalescent, not even the odd raindrop disturbing the rippled perfection. No answers down there.

The gun. He should have used the gun. It was his instrument, his specialty. And it would have been an end to the pain, all of it and all at once. But no, the gun was wrong. They would find him, they would know. And in his febrile mind he decided. He had to disappear.

Into his line of vision, the body of a dead fish floated, its unseeing eyes gaping back up at Quinn. Perfect, he thought. I'll be fucking fish food. I'll be gone, and she'll be ok. Carrie will find her way out, and be free.

His eyes closed for a moment, and his mind reached back for the last time he'd seen her. He called up the feeling of her hand on his hot forehead, saying they'd talk when she got back. He'd heard that before. But still, it was good. A last touch. His brain almost porous with high fever, his body riddled with sepsis, her eyes and her touch were the last thing he could focus on, and hold on to.

A bad deal, a bad choice. His whole life. But that was over now. It was time to make an end of it.

Hands slippery with sweat, he began to shuffle with the plastic ties.

A quiet male voice that Quinn had not heard before intruded on his thoughts. He was so intent at first on wrapping the plastic handcuffs around his wrists, that he thought he imagined the voice. Though he didn't understand the voice at first, he was intent that the person should leave him be.

"Go. Away," said Quinn, as clearly as possible. His energy was almost spent. The voice said something else, which he finally recognized as Arabic. Great.

"I want," said the man. "I cannot." Quinn looked up, and fixed his dimming vision on the kindly face of a bearded stranger, his dark eyes gleaming. 50-50 chance this a hallucination, he thought.

"God," declared the man, "has sent me to help you."

Quinn dropped his head. Jesus Christ. He couldn't even kill himself in peace. "Un-fucking-believable," he moaned, face buried in the top of the cement block. "Un-fucking-believable."

He lurched to his feet, staggered away from the river's edge. Towards the back of some buildings, around the loading dock, to a row of dumpsters. He didn't see, but rather felt, the kindly man following him. The nerve of some people, he thought. First Herr Jonas, now this asshole. Fuck off, and let me die.

His vision was closing, and rather quickly too. It was almost funny, like walking down a gray tunnel. He felt lighter. And he felt cold, very cold. He felt like he was freezing to death, even though he knew it was a perfectly temperate night. He needed to find a quiet place to die, and fast. Like an old dog that goes under the porch to be alone at the end.

A dumpster. His last chance. He lifted the lid, but it seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. He tried to get a leg over, and highside it, but his torso wasn't having it. His abdominal muscles screamed in pain as the peritonitis and sepsis took over everything.

Quinn was determined, but too weak. He thought to himself: If I can get into this fucking dumpster, and dispose of myself, then she'll be…

But the thought was never finished, as his conscious failed him and he fell heavily to the ground in front of the dumpster. The light went out of his eyes as the concerned stranger approached. His eyes were met with kind brown ones, but his last wink of consciousness insisted that blue eyes were the last thing he saw.

And then, darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

Carrie fumbled in the cases near the door of Quinn's hideout, and found a headscarf and dark glasses that she had brought along from her fallback kit. She and Quinn had brought most of it here, after they had liberated it together from her old storage locker. It was the first chance they'd had to talk about anything else, after the busted hit on her life. It should have been comforting, at least a little. But recalling that conversation made her stomach turn over.

"Got a new job, a new guy," Quinn had mused. "And still kept your fallback plan in place."

She almost didn't know what to say, because yes, she had. She had felt safe with Jonas, and happy and somewhat secure in her life with Franny. But somewhere inside, she never really believed that that quiet life would stick. It was like a dream, and someday, she would wake up.

She had tried to approach Quinn during that conversation, tried to bring up their last meeting, and strange parting. Two and a half years and a whole lot of Syria had made Quinn seem cold as ice. That was how he spoke, and that was how he tried to act. But truly, she felt something beneath that. He might have said, "That doesn't matter now," when she mentioned how she'd looked for him. But his actions said something else. He hadn't acted on the name in the kill box – of course not. In fact, after an inauspicious start, there they were, back together again. Quinn scheming to get her Proof of Death into the box, to get her on a train out of town, to get Carrie far away from harm. He even sat through her sorrow, squirming uncomfortably, as she recorded a farewell video for her daughter. That had been horribly painful for Carrie, but Quinn had quietly vetted it, helped her do it.

He was trying to preserve her life. And as her Dad used to say, "If you would know what a man loves, observe how he spends his time."

So Quinn was still on her side, and no matter how nonchalant he acted as Carrie dug through her fallback box, his actions told the truth. The fallback box, along with the unflattering brown wig, contained the few items of disguise and defense she still had at her disposal. If she wore it around enough, sooner or later she'd be made, even in the wig. So for a longer period of time searching the streets, the scarf and glasses would be helpful. And she still had the hideout she and Quinn had been using, for cover. Jonas had indicated that she should come now, or not come home at all. So be it. She had work to do.

She had printed out a small picture of Quinn and hidden her burner phone in her purse. As far as the Russians were concerned, she and Quinn were both dead. If they both fell completely off the grid for a period of time, maybe things would cool off. She had done her level best to convince Saul that someone had infiltrated his group, misused his Kill Box and that the Russians were behind it all, along with a mole in his organization. If he's half the agent I remember, thought Carrie, he should be able to figure it out from there. Surely he'll realize he's being tailed, she thought. But he's acting so willfully blind – like he really hates me – that I'm not sure.

Meanwhile, Carrie had her own mission: to find Quinn and help him get treatment for his infection. Carrie put on the wig, the headscarf, and headed outside. She got her bearings and looked around. Where would Quinn go, when he wanted to disappear? He was good at disappearing, a professional. But he was injured. How far would he have gotten?

She turned away from the main street and down an alley. When you're looking for an invisible man, start looking amongst less visible people. She moved slowly, looking for any tells – tipped over trash cans, abandoned clothing, bandages. She had a feeling he was very sick when he passed by here, so he might have started getting sloppy.

By turns and twists, Carrie searched up and down the blocks around the building that contained their hiding place. There were residential properties around them, as well as the back of a commercial block – but no way was Quinn, out on a death march, wobbling into a local chemists and asking for Tylenol 3 and bandages. So far, her proximal search had turned up nothing.

Stopping for a moment, Carrie closed her eyes. After a bit, she opened them, and followed her intuition, which led her towards the industrial district starting at the edge of the river Spree.

She passed a few people, and nodded and said a word of greeting in German, if it seemed appropriate. She didn't want to call attention to herself or her search, not yet. She scanned the waters' edge for obvious hiding spots, for places that someone might hole up for a few hours. She looked up and down and tried to spot any security cameras around the backs of buildings, but she didn't see any. She was passed, first by a barge and then by a tourist boat. Would he have jumped on one of those? If he got on a barge, she might have truly lost him. She walked about a half mile down the riverside, slowly, then calculating that someone with Quinn's infected gunshot wound wouldn't have gotten much farther, she turned and started to search in the other direction.

As she searched, she mused a little bit on her past relationship with Quinn, and on the now-broken relationship with Jonas. To be truthful, she had been pretty callous around Jonas, certainly during her time off medication. She had suggested that going off her meds would help her see and understand the truth – well, in retrospect, that hadn't worked so well. The strange vision of Ayaan, the faces of all the departed that she had killed, there was no truth in that. No doubt their families hated and resented all Americans who had affected the drone strikes on their villages. But while she was experiencing these wild highs and lows, her very worst self was showing to Jonas. He was good with the sane Carrie, the Carrie that was sober and followed rules. And he was ok with the sexy Carrie that wanted to review documents all night and snort caffeine. But… the Carrie that emerged later… vicious, thoughtless, selfish, unconcerned with anything outside herself, least of all with the fact that someone was using Jonas' young son as a pawn to get to her… Jonas had no use for that Carrie. For what it was worth, she could understand that. She didn't like herself much after that incident, either.

In contrast with Quinn, though… Quinn, who had seen her in the hospital under treatment, before and after ECT, on medication and off of it. He'd seen her manic, single-natured, focused on just one thing, whether that was that was to capture a terrorist, solve a problem, exonerate Brody… whatever it was, she was into it intensely, being her true, unguarded self. And every time she turned and looked back, Quinn would be standing behind her with a coffee, a smoke, a firearm. No judgment in his eyes. He got her.

That was what hurt the worst. They understood each other. At the very least, she needed to catch up with him, and tell him that. Tell him she was sorry she hadn't been there for him. Not in the way she should have been. He hadn't seemed to believe it when she said she'd "looked for him everywhere."

That much was true – she had looked in crowds, in theaters, on trains, everywhere she went for two years, hoping he would appear. He hadn't. Eventually, she got involved with Jonas, and made a new life. Even then, she never stopped scanning crowds for his face.

Carrie had now walked back past the spot where she'd first come to the riverbank and continued her search upriver in the opposite direction. She was beginning to feel like her chances of finding Quinn were slim indeed. Either he was more fit for travel then he had seemed, and had gotten away from here somehow. Or… well, just looking at the river made her very nervous.

For God's sake, what if he'd slipped into the water? She was determined to remain unobtrusive, but she walked a little more quickly, coming around a bend to the back of a warehouse where a large number of loading dock doors were closed, buttoned up against theft. Around the side of the building were stacked pallets, trash barrels, and other shipping paraphernalia that one wouldn't expect to be stolen. Along with a stack of concrete blocks.

Behind this building, by the edge of the river, Carrie saw something out of place. She hurried to the single upright concrete block, standing next to a dock piling on the water. What was that stuff, a bandage? Or just some trash?

Her eyes widened as she squatted down and took it in – she had found, dropped next to the concrete block, a handful of unused Plasticuffs. She picked one up and inspected it.

It was small, but unmistakable. A smear of blood – dried, but still red – could be seen on the cuff in her hand. Heart beating like a triphammer, Carrie came to her feet.


	4. Chapter 4

Quinn had no memory of being transported anywhere, nor much of a memory of anything else for the next 24 hours. But the following afternoon, he returned to consciousness in stages, noting first of all that he was still alive, and second, that he was in less pain.

 _Fuck, I'm supposed to be dead. Well, I failed at that. Time to figure out how things stand._

Before opening his eyes, he tried to get an idea of what was going on around him just by listening. His ears told him that he was not alone, and his nose told him that someone was cooking a meal – something spicy – and that the cook was nearby. He flexed his hand and arm very slightly, and noted that the sore spots were once again covered with tape – he had a couple of IVs in again. His fever had to be down a bit – this was the first time since the day he got shot that he wasn't shivering with the ghostly chill that high fever brings. And strangely, he felt better, healthier. He had a lost a lot of blood. So much, in fact, that he was sure that it would only be a few minutes until he passed on. How was it he felt this much better? Someone must be giving him painkillers, but it was more than that.

Quinn took a risk and opened his eyes a crack. The bag hanging above him was not just Ringer's- it was blood. The container looked sterile and the setup looked shipshape – but there was no commercial label on the bag. What the hell kind of clinic was he in, that there were blood products available that hadn't been labeled or classified? A not-exactly legitimate one, he thought. But he felt so much better. He figured that the medic must know what they are doing, as far as it mattered to him, at any rate.

He had relief from the pain, real relief. That all by itself created a feeling of safety. And he was still so tired. In a few minutes, his exhaustion drove him back to sleep.

He woke again, sensing a person leaning over him. His instinct was to reach up and grab the guy's wrist, but because he was so weak, he was only able to ask, his throat dry, his voice croaking with disuse.

"Wait," Quinn grated. "What is that?"

His eyes managed to focus in on the face of his savior, and Quinn was not that surprised to see the man who had accosted him on the dock last night, as he had tried to commit suicide. Another do-gooder, and dragging God into it, to boot. The man's eyes crinkled up as he smiled wanly, and indicated the needle he had been about to apply to Quinn's line.

"You are awake. That is good," the man said, and held up the needle. "Morphine. For your pain."

"No," Quinn wheezed, then started to sit up, but found himself unable, and soon was being helped to lie back down again on the hospital bed. The man had set aside the syringe, and was making shushing noises as he helped Quinn to arrange himself on his back.

"You were very sick. Getting better, but still," the man said. "You have pain. You have infection. Lie down now, for a longer time," he insisted.

Quinn's instinct to leave had been thwarted, so he settled back in. He looked up at the man, uncertain. "How long have I been here?"

"One night, and one day, and there will be many more days for you after that, _İnşallah,"_ said Quinn's savior. He pulled a chair over. "I know you are weak. My name is Hussein. I am a doctor, and you are safe," he said briefly.

Quinn looked at him, thought about it. He really had no ability or desire to get up and leave, safe or otherwise.

"This," Quinn said, indicating the bag. "This blood…" he was so addled, he couldn't even form the question.

"Mine," Hussein said briefly. "You must trust me."

Well, it wasn't like Quinn had any choice in that. He felt himself fading again. It was amazing how little strength he had. Hussein was holding his head up a bit, giving him sips of cool water like a nursemaid. The water tasted amazing – cool and sweet. He realized Hussein was muttering something, partially in Arabic, and partially in broken English.

"….feeling better, take some food… I eat my meal, then I take my walk… every night, this same time. You are lucky, friend, that I walk at night on the river. Allah brought you into my path…now you sleep…"

When Hussein brought the syringe around again, he looked at Peter's eyes, silently asking his permission to administer more medicine, including morphine, Quinn looked back at him and nodded.

I don't know why he bothered to save me, Quinn thought as he felt the drugs take effect. But I'm glad he did. He thought of his time in Syria, being thrown back together with Carrie, Saul and the bizarre fact of Carrie's name in the kill box. Carrie and her German boyfriend, and how were they doing, now that she had to drop off the face of the earth?

He had been near death, and a lot had been left unsaid. He really had tried to disappear into the river, and he had done it largely because of fever. He understood that now, how befuddled by illness he was. Also because he'd protect the life of any fellow soldier.

But he couldn't lie to himself: he also did it for her. He remembered saying that to Jonas, " _For her, you would_." Jonas had looked unconvinced, but Quinn had meant it as sincerely as anything he'd ever said.

Yeah. For her, I would, he thought again. I'm still in that situation. Now, I'd like to go see what the fuck is up with the Russians, and figure out if I can get Carrie her life back. And mine. He was slipping back into vague but visceral fantasies, visions enhanced by morphine. The kind, crinkled eyes of Hussein went down into the darkness with him, but so did another thought, a pair of blue eyes with terrible hurt and guilt in them, under a shaggy brown wig. That hurt. He wanted to fix it.

" _For us, I would,_ " he thought, his meaning ambiguous and imprecise, even to himself. Even so, that thought remained, and followed him into dreams.


	5. Chapter 5

Carrie held the Plasticuff up to the light, and inspected it. Eyes bright, she looked down again at the concrete block, and considered. Then she looked down at the water.

It was the last thing she wanted to think about, but she had to return to an obvious theorem: that Quinn had just slipped into the river. From the looks of the concrete block on the dock, and the handful of plastic ties, he had been trying to weight himself down, so his body wouldn't be found. She squatted down and examined the edge of the dock for signs of another block, the outline of one in the dirt, or the marks of a block having been scraped across the ground and over the edge. But she didn't see any. That was good.

The block at the edge of the water looked like it hadn't been moved recently. When she gave it a tug, she moved it to reveal the shape of the block, outlined in the dirt on the pavement. OK, so this one had been here a while. That was good, too.

She stood up and strode over to the stack of concrete blocks outside of the loading dock. Quinn had lost a lot of blood, and was weak when he left. She didn't think he'd still have the strength to grab one of the blocks on the stack in the back of the warehouse, and tussle it over to the water. Looking over the stack, and at the ground between the blocks and the edge of the river, she judged that the one block next to the river's edge was the only one he'd had to work with, and that it had not been moved recently by Quinn or anyone else. It didn't look liked any of the others had been moved lately, either.

She walked back to the water, squatted down, and looked over the edge. As she peered in, frowning, she dismissed the idea that he had just slid in. No, Quinn wanted to vanish. This area was highly populated, and Quinn would have known that his body would have been found in the river, within only a day or so. God help her, he had wanted to buy her time and anonymity. So unless he'd just fallen, he wouldn't have gone in unless he could weigh himself down.

She stood up and forced herself to take a few deep breaths. So had made it to the river. He was trying to lose any tails, should there be any, and when he reached the river, he had turned right. He had brought the ties with him, and he had moved down the riverbank until he found this concrete block. He had tried to tie himself to this chunk of cement so he could vanish into the river bottom, but for some reason he'd abandoned the plan.

She wrapped one of the plastic ties around her own wrist, and scrutinized the result. Even feeling well and wide awake, it would be difficult it was to cuff yourself to anything with these things. Quinn's wrists were bigger, so it would have been a tighter fit, with less slack. Harder to bind himself, and with his hands shaking as they no doubt were, he had given up on the Plasticuffs. Yeah. That felt right. So where did he go?

Standing up, she slipped the tie with Quinn's blood on it into her pocket, unconsciously, keeping this small piece of him with her. She turned and looked at the area, and tried again to put herself in Quinn's place.

Farther down the riverbank, there were more buildings, more closely spaced, and they were built up closer to the edge of the Spree. Probably not the best place to hide yourself. She turned and looked at an alley behind her that went between buildings. Not the most savory place, with the huge row of dumpsters set up along it that served the factory in front. But a more likely place to hide.

 _Dumpsters_. _Fuck_ , she thought. What better place to hide when you were trying to off yourself?

She walked to the alley and began inspecting the dumpsters, looking at the outside, behind and under them, and then lifting the lids to look at the inside, one after the other, moving hurriedly. He had to have come this way, she thought. He wouldn't have gone back the way he came in, and the route farther up the riverbank was more likely to be occupied. She bet that he'd headed back this way, and hid in or near one of these dumpsters, where he wouldn't be found for hours.

 _He could still be alive_ , she thought desperately, looking at the front of one dumpster after another, and leaning over the edges and looking at the foul-smelling contents. _I have to hurry_. _If he succeeded in getting over the edge into one of these, he could be hidden here but still alive. He's a tough guy. Maybe I'm still in time._

Panic hit her full force, and her eyes filled with desperate tears. She reached the third dumpster from the end, and lifted the lid to look inside – no Quinn. She stood down on the ground, and inspected the front of this dumpster. As she looked closely at the side of it, near the bottom front, her heart nearly stopped. There was a smear there. A smear that had been red, but was drying to brown. The dumpster was a dirty green, and the smear of what was clearly blood stood out in high contrast. There are lots of reasons why there might be blood on the front a dumpster, she thought. But looking at it, it all made sense to her. In her mind's eye, she could see Quinn trying to dispose of himself.

 _Jesus Christ,_ she thought _. He was here. Right here._ She looked in the adjacent last two dumpsters with her heart in her throat – but he wasn't in there. She looked back at the blood smear, looked more closely. It was unquestionably blood and it was fairly fresh. If she still had access to her Intel Support Teams, she could have called them to take a sample, and compared it to the blood on the tie in her pocket. She didn't need them to tell her though – those samples would match. And she was sure they'd match Peter Quinn.

 _So where the fuck is he?_ She turned around and exhaled with frustration. He had gotten this far. Probably leaned on this waste container while trying to hide himself. But he wasn't in there. Judging by the garbage that had built up in all the dumpsters, no trash collection had occurred yet this week. So his body hadn't been carted off. It would have been noticed by the garbage collectors, anyway. So from here, he seemed to have really disappeared.

She looked all around her. She heard the sounds of a residential neighborhood from up around the corner, where the alley took a sharp left turn into a side street. She looked back at the river, then looked back up the alley, and continued up it, more because she didn't know where else to go, and it was logical to move on a bit.

Carrie emerged from the alley onto a brick-paved sidewalk that bordered on the back of a courtyard, surrounded by old, multistory apartment buildings. She felt like Quinn's trail was cold now, and getting colder. She could feel herself losing him – his trail had been difficult to piece together to begin with, and now, she was running out of ideas. She tried to take a deep breath and calm herself, wrapping her headscarf close. Leaning against the wall, she slid down until she was sitting, and leaned her head forward on her knees. _Fuck_.

She stayed that way for some time, feeling tears well up in her eyes, and internally apologizing to Quinn again.

 _Fuck_ , she thought _. Quinn, my friend, my_ … she didn't even know how to classify him. _I'm sorry. I didn't take care of you. Not the way I should have._ She inhaled, a long, sniffling sob, and dropped her head deeper between her knees, her hands over her headscarf, and was still.

She heard shuffling footsteps approach, light ones. Almost too dejected to care about herself, she didn't move or look up. The steps came closer, and stopped. A little voice quavered at her from a short distance above.

" _Hallo?"_

Carrie looked up, to see a boy in dirty jeans and sneakers looking down at her. He held a battered soccer ball under his left arm, and was scuffling his worn sneakers uneasily on the pavement.

" _Hallo_ ," the kid said again, when she didn't answer. Judging by his eyes and skin, the kid's family had its ancestry somewhere in the Middle East, maybe Egypt. He looked to be between ten and twelve years old, and when she turned her tear-stained eyes up at him, he smiled, shyly.

" _Brauchen Sie Hilfe?"_ the child said. Do you need help, the kid was asking.

" _Nein,"_ Carrie said shortly.

" _Soll ich einen Arzt rufen?"_ Should I call a doctor?

" _Nein, nein hospital,"_ Carrie said, and stood with difficulty. Every bone in her body ached, and she felt hopeless. She wished the kid would bugger off.

The boy cocked his head, and having heard Carrie's pronunciation, tried his rudimentary English. "Not hospital. _Die Klinik_. My neighbor. He is doctor," the boy finished proudly.

Carrie's glance sharpened, and she swiveled around to look at the boy. Reaching out, she startled him by taking his shoulder.

"Actually, yes. _Ja, bitte_." she said, hope surging again in her heart. "If you know a clinic, a local doctor, I'd like to see him. Can you take him to him?" Maybe this guy had seen Quinn, or knew where he went. And she could question some of the other residents. She gripped Quinn's picture in her pocket, shaking with anticipation.

The boy pulled his shoulder away from her grip and shrugged. " _Ja_ ," he said. "Come on."

Inside, she was buoyant again. Any clue, any clue at all would be enough to give her hope. Pulling the headscarf close around her face, Carrie followed the boy up to the door of a dilapidated building, and disappeared inside.


	6. Chapter 6

Quinn sat up woozily, and attempted to stand. No dice – he was still as dizzy as fuck. And his belly hurt, it hurt all over. It wasn't a real hospital and he didn't have a call button. Hussein wasn't around. So he reached down by the side of the bed, and grabbed the urinal that the doctor had left there for him. He took care of his business and laid back down carefully, not pulling on the lines in his arm or hand.

Overall, he was still very weak. But he felt better, a lot better. He was still in a lot of pain, as his body healed from the bullet wound and fought off the infection. He had been helped along by a steady drip of IV antibiotics. Quinn looked at the cracked open vials next to the bed, and read off the names –cefazolin and metronidazole, sitting next to some open, empty vials marked morphine. Heavy-duty shit. He had been given antibiotics and pain relief before, but not like this, not even when he had been shot at the Gettysburg raid. But that time, he had been transported directly to a Pennsylvania hospital, and then transferred back to a bigger one in DC. There had been no time for him to grow septic and become half-dead with infection, not that time.

Hussein had stolen quietly back into the room, and had been watching Peter inspect his medication vials.

"Cipro is better," he said suddenly, startling Quinn out of his reverie. "But I could not get. You are getting better, so is ok," he finished.

"Where do you get all these?" Quinn asked. "The morphine?"

"I have friends," Hussein said, with a polite smile. "I do for them, then, sometimes they do for me. One of them drives the lorry," he finished. Stolen medical supplies from a transport. That made a bit of sense, because none of this looked above board.

But it was working. Quinn found himself smiling tightly back at Hussein.

"Thank you," he said sincerely. "I don't know why you bothered."

Hussein shrugged. "Later, I will tell you. Now you are hungry?" he asked, eyebrows raised. "There is soup. Rice."

Quinn turned on his side. "No, I'm not hungry. Just thirsty," he said. Hussein brought him a tumbler of water, which he sipped thirstily, the doctor standing nearby in case he needed help.

"Yes, the medication, it slows down the bowel. This will stop soon," he said. "Drink more."

The conversation exhausted Quinn, who laid back again and closed his eyes. He wanted to say more, ask another question, but he found himself dropping off back to sleep again. The late afternoon light angled in the window, and a golden glow illuminated the sparsely furnished apartment as Quinn drifted off. No doubt it was the morphine, but he also felt at peace, somehow. He was soon deeply asleep.

* * *

Hussein closed the door to his bedroom clinic tightly, and went back into the kitchen, standing over the pot. A simple chicken soup, mostly broth, with rice and a few onions and carrots. He dished himself up a bowl, and pondered the possible background for the young man's story. As a doctor, Hussein had gotten pretty good at reading people. But other than being horribly injured and seemingly wanting to die, he had not gotten much of a read on this patient.

Still, the recovery was going well. This kind of work made a welcome break from his usual duties of unsticking jammed windows, hanging blinds and plunging toilets. That paid the bills and at least he had a place to stay, but he missed practicing medicine, missed being a healer. His underground medical clinic had saved lives in the past, and certainly cured minor hurts and illnesses every week. But this time, Hussein felt he had made a big difference. And however determined the young man had been to die when he found him, without fever, he seemed to have turned a corner. In any case, he was no longer begging to be left alone to perish. The doctor was relieved.

It was a bullet wound, no doubt about that, and though healing and infection had changed the appearance somewhat, Hussein had quickly determined that an exit wound was present. Not too messy, considering. He had worried initially that the young man had a ruptured bowel, and would require surgery. But apparently, this was not the case. The bullet must have entered soft tissue and passed right though the external obliques. He was lucky, this man. But also fortunate that Hussein had been able to assist him when he did.

Hussein looked down at the crease of his elbow, at the slight blood bruise that was forming under the skin of his antecubital fossa. The vein under there usually was used for phlebotomy because it was well-anchored in the muscle, making it relatively easy for Hussein to set up a draw on himself. The young man had again been fortunate that Hussein had found him, because in addition to being a medical practitioner of some years and skill, he was also Blood Type O-, the universal donor. When Hussein's friend, Serdar, had stopped his truck several weeks back, and invited Hussein to help himself to the donated medical supplies before they were moved on to the Red Crescent drop point, he had pointed out boxes of tubing, anticoagulant-loaded bags, small and large syringes, safety-lock winged infusion sets, and the like. Hussein had hesitated a bit, but Serdar had pressed him.

"Take it," he said. "Take more. You will help someone."

Hussein had helped Serdar's wife recover from a severe, complicated lung infection the previous year. The doctor's intervention probably had saved her life, and Serdar would never forget it. At his urging, Hussein had loaded up his makeshift clinic on blood collection and IV devices and supplies.

And now, his whole blood having been transferred twice to the young man, he could see the real worth of that "donation." Whatever he might feel about his world, the young man would live. Hussein himself felt a trifle weaker after donating a full pint of blood, then another half, in the previous 48 hours. He could do with a few good meals and some rest for himself. He grabbed a spoon, and dug into the soup.

He had just finished his meal and was just placing the bowl and spoon in the sink, when he heard nimble footsteps in the hall, and a light tap on the door. He opened the door to reveal his neighbor, Tarek, an eleven year old who sometimes came around in the evenings. Tarek's father was nowhere to be found, and his mother worked at a doughnut shop as a _Gastarbeiter_ , cleaning out the machines and ovens on the night shift. Hussein smiled at the boy. Behind the child, a few feet back down the hall, stood an unfamiliar woman, with dark glasses on and her head covered – normal, for this neighborhood. Her hair stood out in fuzzy brown curls and emerged from the headscarf near her ears. Her arms were folded tightly, and behind the glasses, she was gazing at Hussein.

"Tarek. How are you? Who is the lady?" Hussein asked the boy in German.

"I don't know, doctor, but she was acting sick," Tarek responded.

Hussein looked up, and the cloaked figure approached him. "I'm not sick," she said. "I'm looking for someone."

She took off her sunglasses, and let the doctor see her blue eyes. He saw the desperation in them. Hussein looked down the hallway, and around the corner – she hadn't been seen, except by Tarek. He motioned her inside, and gestured that she should hurry. Hussein nodded at the boy, who turned and walked off down to his mother's apartment, a skip in his step, no doubt congratulating himself on a job well done. Just so, thought Hussein. Sick or not, this lady needs help.

"Come in, come in," he said. "We can talk in my rooms."

* * *

Carrie went in, and Hussein shut the door behind her.

In the back bedroom on the hospital bed, Quinn was dreaming. In the dream, he was taking a nap on the couch of Carrie's condo back at Langley. He had appeared at the back patio sliding door like the spook he was, and she had let him in. She was upstairs, on the phone with someone, and he had lain down on her couch to get 40 winks. He could hear her voice, asking questions. Her voice soothed him.

Carrie's voice. It was so real. He turned over, and smiled faintly in his sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Hussein showed Carrie into the tiny kitchen, carved out of the corner of his two-room apartment.

"Sit, sit," he said, motioning to the table.

"No, thank you," Carrie said, pacing.

"Tea?" Hussein said, turning to the stove. The young lady was agitated, and he wanted to give her a moment of calm.

"No. I'm sorry, but can you look at this?" Carrie said. Hussein put the teakettle down and turned back to her. From her pocket, Carrie pulled a folded printout.

Hussein took it, and when he opened the paper to see a recent picture of his current patient, his eyebrows went up. He didn't feel much surprise, though. Someone had to be searching for the injured young man.

"You are looking, eh?" Hussein said. The woman frowned. She said nothing, and seemed to be waiting for him to say something else. Finally, she spoke.

"You've seen him," she stated, not really asking, but knowing.

"Yes, I have seen him. You are wanting him because…" Hussein's eyes flicked up from the picture, examining the face of his visitor. He handed the picture back to the woman.

"He's my… friend. He's badly hurt, and in trouble," she said. She seemed to be hoping that would be enough explanation to get Hussein to speak. There were tears in her eyes, and her chin trembled.

"You are not _Polizei_? No, no, you are not," Hussein said, convincing himself. He walked over to the closed bedroom door.

He put his hand on the door, and turned to Carrie, who had followed him. In a very quiet voice, he said, "He is still very sick, very weak. He must rest." With that, he pushed the door open slowly.

Carrie stepped over the threshold into the bedroom, pulling off the headscarf and wig. She dropped them on the floor of the makeshift clinic as she rushed to the bedside, and spoke Quinn's name.

"Quinn! Oh, God, Quinn, I was so worried," Carrie said, delirious with relief. She knelt on the floor next to the bed, where Quinn lay sleeping or unconscious, on his side, the IVs still running into his veins, his breathing slow and even. She put a hand on his forehead, then ran her fingers through his hair, like she had back at the hideout. He seemed to have a low fever, but thank God, he was not as hot as he had been two days before.

Their host stepped into the room, and closed that behind him as well. "He was very sick. Nearly dead. Now, getting better," he said.

The man pulled a chair over to the head of Quinn's bed, and held out his hand to Carrie. He helped her to sit. She looked up at him gratefully.

"Thank you," was all she was able to stammer out, as she pulled the chair closer to the bed. She looked back down at Quinn, and put her hand again on his forehead, then slid it down to his cheek. She drank him in, couldn't take her eyes off him.

Hussein's eyes shifted from the distraught woman to the sleeping man. A doctor is a student of the human condition, and it was clear to him that there was a bond. "I will make tea," Hussein said discreetly, and left the two alone.

When she had last seen him, Quinn had been pale, his eyes sunken, and his skin had had a gray pallor. When Jonas tried to help him sip water, he had been seized by terrible bouts of shaking, and had complained of being cold. Now, she could see normal color in his skin, however pale he still was. The sweating and shaking had stopped, and he was sleeping peacefully. She looked at the IV bags, the medication vials, and then back down at his face. Lying on his side with one arm tucked under the pillow, his other hand lay free on top the worn blanket, with intravenous lines taped to the back of his hand and his arm. She reached carefully around the lines, grabbed his hand, and held it. Staring at him with concern, her brow wrinkled with a frown, Carrie settled in. She didn't move for a long time. She was just getting used to the feeling of relief in her chest. Quinn was alive.

The door opened again, and the gentleman brought her tea in a chipped ceramic cup. She took it wordlessly, and watched as he dragged another vinyl-seated kitchen chair across the bed from her, to sit at Quinn's other side.

"Tarek told you, I am doctor. My name is Hussein," he said.

"I'm Carrie. This is Quinn," she said simply. She looked up at him appreciatively. Whatever else the man might have in mind, he had helped Quinn. No doubt, saved his life. Still, it was not in her nature to be too trusting. Not yet. So she didn't elaborate. She didn't have to, though, because Hussein continued without any questions from her.

"I found him, one day ago, by the river," he said. Carrie nodded.

Hussein continued. "He did not want help. He want to…" The doctor gestured with an open hand, palm down, as if going down a slide. Then he shrugged. "I could not. That is why…" Hussein gestured at Quinn, in the bed.

"He wanted to die," Carrie said bleakly. She looked down again at Quinn's sleeping face. "I know. I figured it out. And I couldn't find him," she said.

Hussein stood. When Carrie looked up at him, she saw that the look on his face was tender. "But you did find him. Allah is kind," he said. Carrie smiled.

Hussein then walked to the headscarf and the wig where Carrie tossed them on the floor. He handed them to Carrie, and said, "You are hiding."

She pressed her lips into a thin line, and nodded.

"Forty-six years, I live in Mosul. I understand hiding," Hussein said.

When Carrie said nothing, he continued, "Only Tarek saw you. No man saw him," he said, nodding towards Quinn. "You are safe. So, you stay. He get better, then you leave," he finished.

Carrie looked at Hussein thoughtfully. Then she nodded. "OK," she said, with a tight smile. It wasn't often that one met a true Good Samaritan. Hussein walked out, and left Carrie alone in the room with Quinn again.

Quinn slept on for a couple of hours, as Carrie stood by and watched over him. At one point, she asked Hussein where she could use the restroom. He indicated down the hall, but also that she should cover up completely first. "Even the face," he said. She made short work of it, and slipped back to the apartment unseen. As the sun began to set, Hussein came in again to check on Quinn, and administer another dose of antibiotics via the IV line. Quinn moaned in his sleep. Carrie reached out and put her hand on his cheek. After the drugs had run into Quinn's port, Hussein nodded at Carrie.

"I make dinner," he said, and left the door slightly ajar. Carrie could hear the sound of cabinets opening and a pot clanking on a stovetop.

The noise roused Quinn, and he opened his eyes a slit, cloudily staring up at her. A slight smile stole over his face, a smile of recognition. Then he shut his eyes again.

Carrie spoke to him, leaning over, her blonde hair hanging low, brushing his arms and chest. "Quinn. It's me," she said, feeling helpless.

He opened his eyes again, wider, and this time, really focused on her. He lifted his head from the pillow, and appeared to come completely awake.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he asked, exasperated, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I came after you, as soon as I knew you were gone," she choked out.

"You were supposed to get on the train, get the hell out of town," he groaned, head falling back. His eyes closed in exhaustion.

"Fuck that," she said angrily, near tears. "I am not leaving you."

Quinn took a deep breath, and sighed. He looked over at her. Her eyes were bright and determined, and she was squeezing his hand. He opened his mouth to say something again, but she interrupted and wouldn't let him.

"No. _No_. You are not getting rid of me," she insisted.

"You _are_ used to getting your way," he said, trying to sound disgusted, but actually feeling somewhat pleased.

"Yeah, well, you've been a big help with that," Carrie said. Hussein pushed back into the room, with a soup bowl and spoon in each hand.

While Hussein stood by, she helped Quinn to a sitting position, propping him with pillows. He sucked in his breath with the pain, clenching his teeth as the muscles in his belly cramped with the effort. "Sit up, I'll help you eat," Carrie suggested.

"Give it here," Quinn said irritably. "You don't need to spoon-feed me."

"Alright, fine. But I'm right here," Carrie said. She looked at Hussein, who was smiling. He handed her the other bowl of soup.

"Dinner with friends. Is good," Hussein observed. "You are lucky," Hussein said to Quinn. Quinn nodded curtly, and shoveled in some of the chicken and rice.

Quinn rested after dinner, and as he was still recovering and exhausted, they spoke very little. Hussein came in and gave Quinn another dose of morphine, after which he dozed off. The doctor had indicated that Carrie should stay right there for the night, and left the bedroom to sleep in the sitting room.

It was full dark, and Quinn had turned on his side, facing away from Carrie. She rubbed his shoulders, and when he didn't protest, she lay down next to him, pressing her chest into his back. She crowded as close as possible to him in the narrow bed, pulling the covers over them both. Her slender arm stole around his chest.

"I thought I lost you," she whispered to his back. He grunted, but was too doped up and tired to answer.

Feeling at peace for the first time in weeks, she dozed off. After a while, Quinn's hand came up and curled around hers protectively. Cocooned in the quiet dark, they both slept.

The peace was short-lived. Sometime after midnight, a noise came from the courtyard outside, which woke Carrie first, then Hussein, who came into the bedroom to look out the window. It went from a single voice to a group ululation and continued to increase in volume. Additional noise came after, adding to the din - slamming doors and banging metal – someone pounding on a garbage can lid, or a frying pan? The grassy median and the street below sounded like they were filling with people, old and young - Carrie knew a mob assembling when she heard one. Then came the sound of growling motors, several good sized cars or SUVs, filling the air with the throbbing of engines. Their headlights glared on the sides of the buildings and through the windows. Quinn finally awoke from his drugged sleep, and sat up, as Carrie stood up from the bed and went to the window with Hussein, who twitched open the frayed curtains.

"What is it?" she asked nervously, gripping her handbag. Quinn said nothing, just winced at the pain that sitting up had caused.

" _Zaghārīt_ ," Hussein said uneasily. "The sound. The women are welcoming someone with honor."

"I've heard it before," Carrie said, anxiety entering her voice. "I should have asked, 'Who is it, _Wer ist da?_ '"

The motorcade stopped. A hulking, bearded man with a shiny bald pate climbed out of the car below. Thrusting both fists into the air, he walked through the gathering crowd to cheers, finally climbing a short flight of steps that seemed to be right below them. They heard a crack or two of small-arms fire, which made Quinn glower and twitch behind them.

Hussein looked at Carrie, and even in the near dark, she could see the concern on his face.

"Hajik Zayd," he said, and pulled the curtains closed.


	8. Chapter 8

At the mention of Zayd's name, Carrie turned to Quinn, her eyes wide and her eyebrows raised high in a wordless question. Quinn was alert enough to have heard the name, alright – he nodded almost imperceptibly to Carrie, then lay back down, gasping in pain as his abdomen cramped with the effort.

"Sounds like a party, alright," he winced. "Fuck, this hurts."

That took Hussein's attention off the window, and brought him back to Quinn's side. "Yes, it can be time for morphine," he said, and prepared to draw up a vial for injection into Quinn's IV.

Carrie walked around, and took a seat next to the hospital bed again. Casually, she asked, "Was all that something I should be worried about?"

Hussein didn't look up from the needle and vial. He just said, "Not a worry, not for you. You rest now," he instructed Peter, as the medicine began to run in. Hussein nodded to her, and left them alone again.

Carrie got a water glass from the bedside table, and helped Quinn take a drink, lifting his head and shoulders with her right arm, steadying the glass with her left. As soon as she was sure the door was closed, she whispered, "You get all that?"

"Yeah," Quinn said roughly, "All of it. How did that fucker get out? He was in Plötzensee prison, now he's loose again?"

"I think the documents Laura Sutton was asking me about have something to do with it," Carrie said, regret evident in her voice. "But I'll have to wait until daylight to go find out."

"We might find out a lot, just by being here," Quinn pointed out, in a whisper. "Me and my infected bullet wound, we're camping out on top of a terror cell."

"You better not get out of this bed, and go try to find out anything, Quinn. Those are bad guys. And you're still in bad shape," Carrie said, worried. She knew Quinn, and an opportunity to infiltrate a cell would be very hard for him to resist. But he said nothing further about it.

She went to the window again, looking out carefully through mostly-shut drapes. "They're dispersing," she said. Walking back to Quinn's bedside, she sat down. She turned towards him again, and stroked his forehead. "We should get some more sleep," she said. "Anything else I can do for you?"

His eyes were on her face, taking in her cheekbones, her forehead, looking lower, down at her lips. But he only said, "Not right now." Laboriously, Quinn turned on his side.

She lay back down next to him, pressing her back into his, and pulled the blankets up over them both. Somehow it didn't feel strange, lying down to sleep with Quinn. Not even after all those nights with Jonas, not after all the years of separation. Figuratively and literally, he was one of the people it was safe to turn her back on. And he might be the only person besides Saul and her father that she'd ever let her guard down with. Her lower back pushed against him, she could feel the heat of his fever. Lower now, it wasn't so troublesome. It actually felt kind of good. She wondered what kind of a furnace he'd be as a bedmate under other circumstances, at first only thinking about the temperature, and then, thinking about… other things. She curled her free arm under the pillow, and started to doze off herself. She thought he was asleep, too, when she heard him speak quietly.

"'Night, Carrie."

Quinn felt his consciousness slipping away as his body relaxed. His pain was under control, and he was warm and almost comfortable with Carrie close behind him. Her breathing was becoming more even, and he could feel her drift off. Honestly, it was the best and safest he'd felt since he'd come back to Berlin. Almost worth getting shot for, he thought hazily.

She was different, Quinn thought. She had been more than a little freaked out when she had woken up on his bed in the hideout. But she realized quickly enough that if he had meant to kill her, he'd have done it already. And instantly was so relieved to see him that it almost broke what was left of his heart. She looked at me, Quinn thought, who was sent to kill her. And when she saw my face, she said, "Thank God." It made him ashamed. Over the next few days, he'd seen that the cold, calculating drone queen was no more, and a different aspect of Carrie's personality had become apparent.

Of course he hadn't harmed her. He'd done what he could to save her life, give her anonymity and freedom, and release her to the world. When she'd tried on the wig and asked how she looked, he'd said, "Like someone else." It was a cold statement, meant to jar her into the right actions, at least, as he saw them. It took all his determination to keep his game face on, put her at a distance and keep her moving towards her own safety.

But they'd had time for Quinn to observe her behaviors, see what concerned her. In some ways, she was the same old Carrie. Clever, pushy, determined, and resourceful. But when he'd sat through the filming of the message to her daughter, he felt miserably uncomfortable, right along with her. He had fucked it up with his own kid, but she really hadn't. She had tried to be a good mother to Franny. Tried to have a normal life, away from the craziness of intelligence work, politics and espionage. She had a new boyfriend now, who had dutifully come when she called. And that life was interrupted. Most likely that interruption was permanent. He felt for her.

He felt for Jonas, too, at least to some degree. Quinn had to admit that he seemed like a good, normal guy – but he didn't seem to know her. Jonas didn't know who he was really with, and what he had. He had fought down sparks of jealousy around the issue, telling himself that he didn't give a fuck. But of course, he did. Quinn had overheard quite a bit of their conversation when he was apparently asleep at the hideout, and it was clear Jonas couldn't reconcile the Carrie he thought he knew, with the real person underneath. He found it irritating in the extreme. The real person was the special one, the valuable one. The one he'd come after, protect, and stay with. If he was welcome, that is.

Sleep was taking over his conscious thoughts, but his feelings remained. They were more clear, if anything. He could see himself how inappropriate a companion this Jonas guy was, no matter what Carrie said, or how she claimed to want him. He represented that other life, normal life. But he wasn't right for her.

"So who is right for her?" His brain insisted on asking. He was beyond rational thought, could feel Carrie's body relaxing further into her bed, burrowed into the envelope of their warmth, unmoving.

Who is right for Carrie? Who else? He wished he had the energy to roll over, and kiss her goodnight. She was sleeping hard, and it would have been his secret.

He comforted himself that she was next to him, completely trusting. Like the old days. It was satisfying. With that, Quinn fell asleep again.

Quinn awoke in the morning, feeling first that Carrie had gotten out of bed, and second, that his pain medication had worn off. She sat up and smoothed her hair as Hussein entered, bringing a cup of tea for each of them.

She took the cup, and waited for Hussein to finish caring for Quinn. As she watched, he pulled the covers back and attended to the entry and exit wound. He removed the soaked dressing, and prepared to clean and re-dress the area.

"Look, is good." He was right, the back of the wound didn't look so red and angry. But it was still early in the healing process. Carrie noted small, neat stitches, which looked to be gut, closing the worst of the exit wound. That was good, that was something neither of them had been able to do.

As the doctor was finishing with Quinn, Carrie said, "Hussein, I need to go out. And not be identified," she said. Quinn immediately tried to struggle out of the bed.

"No way," he said, "If you go out, I'm going with you." A moment later, his mouth open in a rictus of pain, he lay back down, panting.

"No, you must not. Still very sick, infection. You must heal," Hussein said. He got Quinn situated on the bed, and dosed him again with morphine, a process Quinn watched with a defeated gaze and bloodshot eyes. Carrie walked over to him, and put her hand on his shoulder.

"I promise, I will not get made. That's why I'm asking his help. You know what I need, right?" she said to Hussein, eyebrows raised.

"I have idea," he said shortly. "I will go to the laundry."

Carrie helped Quinn sip his tea after the doctor left.

"You can't go out there, Carrie. You should be getting out of town."

"You know I can't do that. I need to get my hands on the documents Laura Sutton was on me about. And figure out why the fuck they almost got us both killed. And by who," Carrie said determinedly. "Anyway, you want to just stay right here, and let me take care of you, for once. You get better, and we'll be back out there soon, together. We'll fix this mess."

Quinn looked at her with a gaze that was part despair, part longing, the gray pallor of his face making it clear that he knew he was too sick to follow.

"Where are you going to go?" Quinn asked. "You just going to go up to Saul, and ask him again? You know how that turned out."

"Last time I saw Saul, and asked for his help, I told him he was being followed. If he's even half the agent he used to be, he's figured out by now that I was right. Maybe not who put the tail on him, but he probably knows that too. If so, then he's beginning to see the light," Carrie said.

"Such optimism," Quinn snapped. "So, you just going to walk into Berlin station in that ugly wig?"

Carrie frowned at him. "No, and no. But I do have a couple friends left. I'm going to stake out Otto's car. Ask him for help, see if he'll go to Saul for me. Chances are he will, and that Saul will help me, through Otto."

"Huh," Quinn said. "Maybe."

"It's one thing we can try. I can go to Laura Sutton again, ask her to go back to her source. But I'd rather go to Saul first. Once he snaps to it, he's going to realize we need to be allies. And then we finally have some backup. Ah, Hussein," she said to the doctor, who had just entered the room with a canvas bag full of blue fabric. He set it on the floor, and triumphantly pulled out a full-length Afghani burqa.

"From the drying machine," he said solemnly. "The neighbor, she is from Kabul."

"Excellent," Carrie said, pulling it over her head, "Thank you so much, Hussein. Can I borrow the bag, too?"

Hussein handed her the canvas bag, and nodded. "I will make food."

" _As-salāmu ʿalayka_ " she said, inclining her head towards Hussein, as he left the room.

The garment rendered Carrie completely unrecognizable. She walked to Quinn's bedside, and he could hear the smile in her voice, as she asked, "How do I look?"

He just looked at the mesh over her face steadily, trying to find her eyes with his gaze. But the mesh of the burqa was opaque, and he couldn't see them. She reached out from under the cover, and took his hand at the bedside.

"Like someone else," he quipped. "Really. Carrie, be careful," he said weakly.

"I will, I promise. You sleep. We'll talk when I get back," she finished. She arranged her purse under the burqa, then picked up the canvas bag.

"Oh, fuck it," he muttered. "Not that again."

"What?" Carrie asked, getting impatient to leave.

"Nothing," Quinn said. "Just keep your damn promise." He closed his eyes, and listened for the door to latch.

Quinn was about to doze off, when he felt the urge to urinate. Not to mention wash his face and hands. He got up from the bed, and shuffled into the sitting room and kitchen – no Hussein. Examining the facilities, Quinn saw rusty faucet poking out out into a tiny kitchen sink: Hussein's only food prep area. Well, he wasn't going to piss and wash up in here. He knew there was a bathroom down the hall, he had heard the doctor pointing it out to Carrie. He made his way down the hall to the communal restroom, and went in. It was slow going, and on the way, Quinn used the opportunity to scan around and see if he could identify Zayd, his friends or his followers. He didn't see anybody on his way down there, though.

After relieving himself and washing up, Quinn walked back to the door of Hussein's rooms. He looked down the central stairwell, and as he went by, a couple of men passed by below. One of them, a relatively young guy with black hair and a beard, looked back up the staircase and made eye contact with Quinn. The man squinted suspiciously. It wasn't Zayd, though. Quinn made a quick note of the guy's appearance, and went as rapidly as possible back to the bedroom, and shut Hussein's door behind him. Enough recon for now, he thought.

He lay down on the bed, favoring his shot side. From the rooms below, he listened to the murmur of the men on the first floor. There was more than Zayd and the other two he had seen, and though most of it was not spoken above a mumble, and he was able to make out certain parts of their discussion.

He couldn't be sure of the rest, but he was able to hear two words for sure.

"Attack," and "Berlin."


	9. Chapter 9

Carrie had an uneventful trip on foot and by U-bahn to the During Foundation's building. Nobody had given her a second glance in the burqa, in fact, most people had given her a wide berth. She hoped it wasn't her smell, from living on the run over the last few days, but that could have been the other reason. She was probably getting a little ripe. She wrinkled her nose at the thought as she walked to the parking garage entrance.

She ducked into the underground garage, and stepped under one of the stairwells. It was just before 8:00 AM, and Otto would be arriving at the building shortly. She pulled off the burqa, and rolled it up, and stuffed it into the canvas bag. Then she took out the brown wig, turned it to the right direction, and aligned it over her blonde hair, tied down in a tight bun. She was irked that Quinn had come right out and said it was ugly. It was a disguise. It wasn't supposed to be pretty.

Finished with her disguise swap, she thumbed a short text into the burner phone and prepared to press send. She'd set it up to go to Otto's personal number. She leaned on the wall impatiently. 7:45, and nothing to do but wait. Otto was as regular as a clock, though, and it would take an act of God for him to call in sick. If her intel was correct, he'd be here soon.

About ten minutes later, she saw Otto's car pull into the garage and park in his accustomed space, right next to the entrance to the secure elevator. Being his Chief of Security, she knew where every camera was in the building basement, and had aligned herself to stand where Otto could see her on emerging from the car, but where a camera would not. She sent the message.

Otto got out of the Mercedes, stood, and turned in a circle. His eyes finally lit on Carrie, and he walked towards her, expecting her to move towards him. But she didn't, just for waited him to approach her. Finally, he came within earshot.

"Carrie," During said. "I've been worried. Must we stand here?"

"It's the security cameras," Carrie said, looking up at Otto. "It's best if I stay out of them."

"So, they're still after you?" he asked, concerned.

"They think I'm dead, the people who are after me," she said, still scanning her surroundings intently as they talked.

"So you know who they are now?" Otto said.

"Yeah. And I know they're not going away. You see, I know who they sent after me… and I know who could have given those orders. At least, the general group of people. And those orders… they didn't make sense. But the bottom line is, Otto, I don't know who's _really_ behind it. We're all just chess pieces, being moved around on a board," Carrie said. "I need to know who the mastermind is, or this will never be over," she clarified.

Otto frowned down at her. "What can I do for you?"

Carrie sighed. "I need you to get a message to Saul."

"Saul Berenson? I am afraid that he and I aren't on the best terms."

"Well, the same goes for me. The last time I saw him, he told me to go to hell, but I was able to give him some information that should have changed his mind. If you ask him for something, the odds are pretty good he'll give it to you. I mean, now he will," Carrie said.

"What am I to ask him for?"

"The complete set of documents that were stolen from Berlin Station. There is something in there that someone desperately does not want me to see," Carrie said.

"Do you really think he'll do what I ask, believe it's you who's asking?" Otto said, with doubt. "He thinks very little of me, Carrie."

"He will, if you give him this," Carrie said. She surprised Otto by grabbing his hand. Into his open palm, she placed a stick of Black Jack gum. On the label, Carrie had scribbled her initials, "CAM". Looking a bit befuddled, Otto nodded and put the gum in his pocket.

"I know I'm asking a lot of you," Carrie said. "But after that, I'll need a place to hide," she said.

"You have Jonas' cabin," Otto suggested. "Wouldn't that suffice?"

"No," she said, voice tinged with regret. "No, I don't have his cabin. I don't have _him_."

"You are… you were…" During started uncertainly.

"No," Carrie said. "Not anymore."

During sighed. "I'm sorry, Carrie. I'll do what I can."

"Thank you, so much, Otto," she said, taking his hand again. He clasped it warmly. "If Saul agrees, he can contact me at the number I texted you from. I'll expect word within 48 hours, whether he's working on it, he refuses, where he wants to meet, or what. No matter what, I'll let you know. After that, I'm onto Plan B."

"What is Plan B?" Otto asked, backing away from her.

"I'm not sure yet," Carrie said ruefully.

"I'll be in touch," Otto said. He walked off towards the elevator entrance, as Carrie turned and disappeared again into the shadows of the parking garage.

Several hours passed while Quinn lay alone on the bed, doped up on morphine, his fever down and his condition stabilizing. The blood transfusion had given him a real boost, but healing of wounded tissues took time, nonetheless. He was half-in, half-out, with his eyes closed, when he heard a commotion in Hussein's sitting room. He steeled himself, and when the bedroom door burst open, he relaxed as much as he could, and didn't move a muscle.

"Hey," a coarse voice brayed. " _Hey_. Are you an American?"

Quinn didn't respond.

"You a spy? Huh?" The voice came closer. Quinn poised himself to use what was left of his energy to defend himself.

Hussein pushed into the room behind the man, arms wide in and appeal, protesting Quinn's innocence. "What kind of spy lays nearly dead in an alley, hoping someone will bring him here?" he shouted at the invader.

"Huh? Answer me!" demanded the intruder. He shook Quinn by the shoulders, and it took all his restraint not to leap up and pop the guy's throat. But no, not in Hussein's home. It wasn't time for that yet. He concentrated on remaining limp and still, keeping his breathing even.

"He can't," Hussein shouted, pulling the hands away from Quinn. "I gave him a sedative. For the pain!" Quinn could hear Hussein rushing the man back out of his bedroom, and away from his patient.

He gave silent thanks to his good Samaritan, who had already done so much, for defending him as well. A time would come soon, though, that Hussein wouldn't be able to come between him and the thugs downstairs. He just hoped that he'd gain back enough strength to fight properly between now and then. Maybe even to come up with some way to thwart their plans, or destabilize their group. Also, he hoped that Carrie wouldn't get in the way, and get herself hurt or killed in the process. He could handle dealing with this scum himself, but with her involved, it got… complicated.

His stomach had been tied in knots, but after it quieted down, he surprised himself by being able to sleep again.

With the Burqa back in place, Carrie was able to move around the city unnoticed. It was amazing how easily a woman wearing a cover blended in, at least in a large, cosmopolitan city like Berlin. Even in her old neighborhood, she walked by her old newspaper kiosk, her grocery and Jonas' favorite bottle shop, her presence unremarked. She knew it was impractical to go to the apartment where she and Franny had lived with Jonas, or even pass by. It was the most likely place to be observed. But it was ok - she could get what she needed somewhere else.

She moved on to the storage lockers where her fallback kit was kept. She and Quinn had raided it for the items they needed, the ones that were easiest to carry, right after he'd brought her back from the cabin. But they hadn't taken it all. There was a case she hadn't even shown him.

Carrie let herself into the room and shut the door. She pulled off the burqa and opened the cases she had left here – and checked. Yes, the lockbox was still here. The hidden key was too. She opened the box and took what was left – about a thousand Euro. A couple of extra fake passports, in case they couldn't unsnarl this mess in a few days, and had to disappear. She even had a high-quality passport with a male profile. The plan at the time –just over a year ago - had been to have a fallback for Jonas. But she knew now, he would never need it. He wouldn't have come. An icepick twisted in her heart, considering how she had felt about Jonas, and how she felt now. She still cared – she always would. He was a good man. But he didn't love Carrie as she really was. It was something she'd have to accept, and move on.

In any case, the fake passport was still useful. They'd need a good picture, but this would work for Quinn, too. She bagged it, along with the money.

In the other case, she found another sidearm, her old reliable Beretta M9, still a favorite and probably the one she'd shot the most rounds with. She put on the shoulder holster, and strapped it in. Then she closed up the cases and put the burqa over the whole thing, and cautiously moved out.

Her disguise still in place, she headed back to the hideout that Quinn had taken her to, close to Hussein's neighborhood. She looked around carefully, and when she was sure she wasn't being observed, she let herself in. Pulling off the burqa, she locked up behind her, and looked around.

Nobody had been here since she and Jonas she had left, the day before. She wanted to clean up the place, in case someone located the hideout, and make sure that Quinn's identity and his toolkit wouldn't be discovered if someone did stumble on the place. She wrinkled her nose as she pulled the sheets off the bed, the now-dry blood crackling and sticking as she tore them away. These, and other identifying marks, items and tools, she put away, hid in the lockboxes around the room, and generally tidied up. She took some time and swept the whole thing, making sure that if anyone came through, they'd have a hard time associating the location with Quinn or herself. She wanted it neat enough that it looked like an abandoned hideout, not a current one. Finally, she took his sidearm and extra clip, as well as the laptop computer and power supply, and put them in the bottom of the canvas bag. He'd want those.

She looked around to see if there was anything else that Quinn might want, something personal. But of course there wasn't. There was nothing outside himself that he'd ever found important. At least, no objects. There were a few kitchen items, a coffee cup, a cutting board, all very generic stuff. But the cutting board reminded her. He had been wearing a boot knife the day he'd cut her loose from the bed, and cut his hand so he could fake her death. What an oddly sensual memory that was now: his touching her face. She looked around and found it, a seven-inch fighting knife with a fixed blade, as sharp as Quinn's tongue. It was as personal an object as she'd ever be likely to find, for him anyway.

Burying the knife deep in the canvas bag along with its leg holster, she scanned the place one last time. It was as clean, secure and anonymous as she could make it. That was a good thing. Maybe they'd need it again.

On the walk back to Hussein's house, Carrie took civilian sidewalks, not back alleys, and moved at a sedate pace, blending in with the local inhabitants. It was after noon, and she would be glad to get back to Quinn, and see how he was doing.

She accepted his re-entry into her life, as strange and jarring as it was, and assumed that whatever happened from now on, he'd be with her. It was amazing how easy he was to get used to. He was like a well-loved leather jacket, worn, and ready to slip back on again, even after years of being ignored. He was a perfect fit.

She knew she had better not push him to the back of the closet, though, not after what they'd been through. They had some serious talking to do, some of it left over from his fevered days in the hideout, some from the last night together, sheltering in Hussein's hospital bed, and some from several years ago. Yes, quite a few questions and some answers to find, maybe even some answers to give. One night on a tree-shrouded street, in the half-dark, he had come to sad, grieving vulnerable Carrie, and found the nerve to ask her to share his life. Kissed her. She remembered that one kiss better than two years worth of Jonas' lovemaking. But when they met again, he'd deferred, not wanted to talk about it. It was like it never happened.

But they both knew it had. And it was time to put that silence to rest. She trusted him, and was so glad to see him. She had been terrified to lose him, and gone hunting to bring him back. But there was more than that. She needed to find out how much more, and hear him say it: he had thought she was worth dying for. There was no way to downplay that, was there there?

She would find out soon enough. Without hesitation, Carrie walked up to Hussein's building, and started up the front steps.


	10. Chapter 10

Quinn had slept until just after noon, and was just starting to stir, when one of the Zayd's lieutenants shoved his way back into Hussein's bedroom.

"Come with me," the man directed Quinn, who had just sat up groggily on the edge of the bed, pulling his shirt closed.

"He's too sick to go anywhere," protested Hussein.

"He was walking in the hall."

"And now, his stitches are bleeding," the doctor said, affronted.

"He's not as sick as you say," the man insisted, and gestured towards Quinn again.

Quinn knew he'd have to deal with a confrontation, now or later. It might take pressure off Hussein if he was compliant in some way. Besides, he might learn something.

"It's alright," Quinn said, and followed the man down the hall and down the stairs, Hussein anxiously trailing him in case he should lose his balance.

Zayd was seated at the head of a table, and didn't rise when Quinn entered. His soldiers surrounded him like an honor guard. He eyed Quinn suspiciously, and stated, "You are an American." When this didn't elicit a response, Zayd tried again. "A spy," he suggested.

"He's my patient, and a guest in my home," Hussein said, flustered.

"A spy is not a guest," Zayd pointed out, his limited patience already raveling thin.

"He's not a spy! He asked me to tell you, you were talking too loud!" Hussein avowed.

"This _kuffar_ heard our plans of attack, here," Zayd said, looking around to his men for approval.

Quinn finally spoke up. "I only heard a few words," he said. "It didn't make sense." He let a moment go by, and decided to go with his gut and push it a bit further. "Now that I know, it _really_ doesn't make sense."

Quinn was betting on that the lieutenant who had retrieved him still had half a brain functioning, under all the jihadist fervor. A moment later Quinn was proven right, when the guy spoke up and asked, "What doesn't make sense?"

" _He's_ just out of prison," Quinn answered, pointing to Zayd. "You think they're not gonna have him under surveillance? You try another attack now, you'll all be arrested or imprisoned, this time for life."

Quinn had his back to the wall, Hussein at his side, near the open door to Zayd's chamber. With his peripheral vision, he saw a blue glow in the hallway, and turned his head just enough to see that a figure in head-to-foot blue fabric was standing at the foot of the stairs, watching the confrontation. Carrie. Listening. Had to be, because the neighbor lady would have known to keep moving and keep her nose out of this. _Fuck_. But now, he was on the carpet in front of these guys, the confrontation was about to blow and there was no derailing it. Quinn needed to finish what he'd started. In his mind, he silently ordered to her stay put, watch, not move, go upstairs, anything but blow her cover and walk into this shithole trying to save him. He turned back to Zayd. There was no way to de-escalate the situation, so Quinn stepped up and goaded him.

"Unless getting arrested is the point. The real jihad is in Syria. But there, you'd have to fight."

Quinn expected this implication of cowardice would enrage the terrorist leader, and he wasn't disappointed. Zayd approached Quinn belted him across the face hard enough to drive him into the wall, knocking the wind out of him, and send his mind spinning.

 _Too weak, I'm too weak, and there are too many of them… stay the fuck back, Carrie, I got this…_ He knew she'd still be watching, just hoped to God that she'd control herself and not come charging to the rescue. Hussein grabbed Quinn's shoulders, and helped him to stand. Quinn turned his head again to check to see if the figure in blue was still there, had approached, or left. She hadn't moved at all. He gave her the slightest shake of his head, made it look as if he was shaking off the punch in the face. But he looked directly at the eye cover, wordlessly signaling as best he could, " _No, stay put."_

Quinn wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and did his level best to close the discussion. He had to get the fuck out of there before Carrie lost her cool. "Look, I understand you not wanting to go, is all I'm saying. I've seen enough of Syria to know." Zayd and his men stared at him. He stumbled a little, and the doctor caught him under the arms.

"I'm a walking staph infection. I need to go. So follow me, kill me, do whatever you need to do. Just make sure the police aren't watching. Don't make a mess," he advised. Turning to leave he emphasized, "I'm a guest here." He breathed a sigh of relief when no one followed.

Hobbling to the hallway, he saw that the figure in blue was gone. Maybe I imagined it, Quinn thought crazily.

But he was right, it had been Carrie. When Hussein and Quinn returned to the bedroom, she was there, pacing, the burqa a puddle of blue fabric on the floor where she had flung it. She walked right to Quinn, touching his cheek and his lip where the guy had punched him.

"Quinn, what the fuck? Are you alright?" she murmured. Quinn pitched forward and collapsed right into her arms, only Hussein's support keeping his weight from taking both of them to the floor. The doctor and Carrie got their arms around under his shoulders, and helped Quinn back to the bed, one on either side. Blood was already soaking through the back of his shirt. With a grimace, he lay back down.

"I saw what you did. Why are you antagonizing those guys? We need to get you healthy and get out of here. No offense to your hospitality, Hussein," she said.

"No offense," Hussein agreed, with a scowl on his face. "They are bad men." He helped Quinn open his shirt. Sure enough, the violent motion had broken the healing stitches. "I must suture again some of these," Hussein said apologetically. "No lidocaine, I am sorry. It is gone last month."

"Don't be sorry," Quinn said. "I'd be dead without your help."

Carrie sat in a chair on one side of the bed, near Quinn's head, while Hussein gathered what he needed, and stitched up the exit wound again .

"You don't have to hover," he said, seemingly annoyed at her nurturing. " _Fuck me_ ," Quinn hissed, as the doctor sterilized an open spot and began to stitch the wound closed again. She grabbed Quinn's hand.

"No, you're right," Carrie said, her eyes filling. "You don't need me, or anybody else. But I want to be here. So let me." Quinn didn't answer, but clutched her hand hard in reply.

His eyes were squeezed shut at the sharp pain of stitches without anesthetic, for which Hussein apologized profusely. When he finished, cleaned Quinn up, administered antibiotics and painkillers, and bandaged him. Carrie felt like she could finally relax and tell him what happened during the day. His grip on her hand lessened, but he didn't let go.

Hussein went out into the sitting room to wash his hands. Before he shut the door, he cautioned Quinn and Carrie. "I will guard this door," he said. "You will rest now. Miss, you must not be seen. Those men, they come back in? You must hide," he said, indicating the closet. Carrie nodded. Who knew what she would actually do, should that happen? But there was no point in arguing with the kind doctor.

The pain must have been decreasing, because Quinn took a deep shaky breath, and let it out. He opened his eyes, and finally let go of her hand. "So, honey," he said sarcastically. "How was your day?"

"Fuck, Quinn," Carrie said. "I was on the stairs. You know I saw it all. How did they know you were here? I was getting worried I'd have to do something drastic."

"Like?" Quinn inquired, eyeing her.

"Like shoot somebody." she said, opening her jacket to reveal her sidearm.

"Christ. I'm glad you didn't. We'd have been in the shit. But I do wish I had my sidearm," he said softly. Carrie opened her purse, and pulled out Quinn's smaller Smith and Wesson. Then she pulled the canvas bag over to the bed, rummaged around for a minute, and pulled Quinn's Beretta out, which she had collected from a case at the hideout. She laid it next to the first one, on the bed, stock towards him. He gave a fragile smile as she also pulled out his boot knife and holster, and put down the extra clip next to the pistols.

"Alright, then," he said.

"Yeah," Carrie said. "We're in hiding and I've lost credibility with a lot of my contacts, not to mention, someone wants to blow our heads off. Doesn't make sense for us to walk around unarmed." In the next few minutes, Carrie detailed her visit with During, her visit to the fallback boxes, and told Quinn about her hideout cleanup. "It's not whistle-clean, but it would pass a casual inspection. People might think that kids just hung out there to smoke, not that a black ops specialist had his HQ there. Oh, and I brought your computer."

"Just what I need. Hope Hussein has WiFi, I've been missing my dose of PornTube."

Carrie smirked. "Funny. You know, I can count on one hand the number of times you've made me laugh."

Quinn closed his eyes again. "Yeah, well, there hasn't been a lot to laugh about."

She reached out, and stroked Quinn's hair. "In any case, I think we can expect a call from Saul in a day or two. Or possibly Otto, if he thinks it isn't safe. Meanwhile, you need to not get fucking killed by those guys down the hall," she said.

"I heard what they're planning, Carrie. It's not pretty. There's going to be a major attack in Berlin. They saw me when I went down the hall to the toilet. I'm sure Zayd is going to think I'm a loose end that needs cleaning up," Quinn said.

"Get better fast," she said. "We need to get our hands on the documents, and figure out what the hell is in them that could be making us a target. As for Zayd, couldn't you tell Dar Adal or Saul about the splinter group downstairs? Have Allison put her resources on it?"

"There might not be time for that. And I think I could get them to change their mind," he said. "I'm pretty sure that Zayd's second in command is susceptible. I don't think he appreciated being supplanted as leader, when that asshole got out of prison."

"Maybe, maybe not," Carrie said. "At least we have weapons now. And a bit of extra cash. I also got you this." She dug through the bag, her delicate fingers lifting out the half-completed male passport.

Wearily, Quinn eyed the counterfeit document. "You think I'm going on the run with you?" His eyes were almost closed, but he managed a raised eyebrow and a half-smile.

"Yeah, I do think so. If we have to. I'm not leaving you, Quinn," she said seriously, taking his hand again.

"Exhausted, Carrie . Need to sleep," Quinn muttered. Whether he was ducking a difficult conversation, or really was tired, Carrie didn't know. Probably both.

"OK," she said. "OK, rest now. I'll keep watch."

The confrontation and additional minor surgery had drained every last bit of energy from Quinn. When he heard Carrie's voice say that she'd keep watch, the final barrier between Quinn and unconsciousness was lifted. He fell sound asleep, with Carrie still holding his hand.

The sun was low in the sky, casting an orange glow through the threadbare curtains, when Hussein pushed the door open, the smell of food wafting in after him. "Dinner," he said.

"I'm sorry," Carrie said to their gracious host. "I should be helping you."

"You should _not_ ," Hussein said. "You must hide yourself. I can do cooking, it is not difficult. Please, will you eat? And you?" he said, indicating Peter, who was blinking and rearranging himself into a reclining position on his back.

Hussein brought simple plates, lentils, rice, and tea. Quinn was able to sit up and nibble, while Carrie, who hadn't eaten anything substantial since Quinn had knocked her out in the woods, found that she was ravenous and had to hold herself back from eating third portions of everything. She sipped at the tea – mint, this time – and leaned back in the kitchen chair next to Quinn's bed. The three of them had eaten mostly in silence, but now, Carrie belched noisily, and grinned.

"Excuse me," she said. "Wow."

"Good one," Quinn slurred around a mouthful of lentils.

"You like the food," Hussein said, gratified.

"I like all kinds of cuisine, but yours is one of my favorites," she said honestly. "I appreciate the meal. I appreciate everything you've done, Hussein. You… you've done more for us, strangers, than people who've known us our whole lives. I don't know how to thank you," she said, and put her hand on Quinn's knee through the covers, to indicate she understood he'd saved him.

"I am glad. I am happy to help," he said.

Quinn finally spoke, getting to the heart of the matter. "Help?" he asked plaintively. "You picked me up off the streets, gave me your blood. Why?"

Hussein took a deep breath, and facing the window, spoke softly, his face bathed in the orange glow of the evening light.

"My wife and I," he said, serene in the hold of a memory, "were doctors together. She died when our clinic was bombed in Mosul."

Carrie and Quinn said nothing, just listened, Carrie's hand still on Quinn's knee.

"I can't practice medicine here, they won't honor my license. So I took a job managing this building," he said, shrugging. "When there's room, I care for people like yourself, who wouldn't receive treatment otherwise. People who are good people, who are in trouble."

Carrie waited a moment for Hussein to continue speaking. "I'm so sorry, Hussein," was all she could come up with.

He looked at her, looked at Quinn. He smiled, and it was a genuine smile that lit his eyes. "She would approve," he said. He seemed to be talking both about nursing Quinn back to health, and about sheltering Carrie and Quinn.

"Well," Carrie said, "I thank her. And you," she said.

"Yes," Hussein said. "I will check more times, for bleeding and pain. But I will leave you undisturbed. You must both sleep."

Carrie offered to do the washing up, but Hussein waved a hand at her, insisting that she'd be better off in a room more distant from the hall, where it was easier to hide. She had no idea how they'd ever repay this man.

Unfortunately, he lived upstairs from a terror cell. As Quinn dozed and Carrie kept watch over him, she heard the voices again from downstairs, muttering and plotting. Occasionally someone shouted, and someone else shushed them. Quinn had been right, she could hear what was going on down there, a lot more than she'd like. And it wasn't good news. She heard the words "jihad," and "attack", that was certain.

She took it all in, and found herself shivering when she made out another word:

"American."


	11. Chapter 11

The ruckus from downstairs had eventually quieted, and between that and the drugs, Quinn rested for a long time. It was refreshing sleep, and he felt a lot better when he finally started to come to, after midnight. He didn't move at first, but opened his eyes, and saw Carrie still awake, sitting in the chair next to him.

Her chair was turned toward the window and she had leaned forward, putting her folded arms on the sill, making a hollow where she cradled her chin. He watched her silently as her eyes scanned the street. No doubt Hussein was sleeping on the couch in the sitting room, and with both doors closed, they were not in immediate danger of being barged in upon. If Zayd had intended to come after him, he'd have done it already. Hussein's cautioning that Peter was a guest must have created a line that the jihadis weren't ready to cross yet.

Downstairs, there was no hubbub of conversation, as Zayd and his men had either gone out, or gone to sleep. Somewhere in the building, Quinn could hear a baby crying distantly. A bit later, the crying tapered off. But that was all. Carrie didn't look concerned about what she saw in the street below, but she was keeping watch all the same.

Quinn watched her for a while, thinking about their situation. She had been as good as her word, and had gone out safely, and come back. But now they had seemingly conflicted issues, both pressing: Carrie's need to find out why a hit had been put out on her life, not to mention his, and the jihadis downstairs.

Thank God her name had ended up in his kill box. He was able to protect her then, though not before she tried to shoot him. He had expected that, had known how resourceful she was. That was why he was wearing the vest. He had massaged his sore spot, cursing irritably, after knocking her out. He felt horrible that he had to do it. But it was the only way to get her out of there fast and safely. So Quinn had nabbed her, and together, they set up the fake death photo. The one problem being that Carrie couldn't believe that Saul was the one behind the order. So off they went together, to the kill box.

Another day, another attempt on his life – and they had miraculously survived that, too. The shooting at the post office drop nearly took him out. He should have worn the vest again, but he hadn't expected the hit on his _own_ life, not at that time, and they were in a hurry. He wanted to let her see who picked up the evidence, and get her the hell out of town. It had been his only concern, and he'd behaved so singlemindedly that he'd almost gotten killed. Carrie had hauled his ass off the street and saved his life.

Whoever was behind it thought Carrie was dead, creating a window of safety. But how long would that last? It was likely that his faked picture would convince them for a while, but it was also possible that someone was not buying it. They could be following up right now, and trying to track either of them to this location. The documents leaked from Berlin Station had something to do with it, but he couldn't guess what. Somehow Saul's operation was blown, and anybody at all could be giving orders through that kill box. Without either Saul or this reporter woman, Laura, giving them access to those documents, they wouldn't be able to figure out who it was, or anything else. It was infuriating. And there was another player, this Otto Düring, that Carrie had been working for. Quinn knew nothing about the guy, didn't have a good read on him, whether he was trustworthy or not. At this point, he preferred to trust himself and Carrie, and nobody else. He just hoped her message got through.

Then, there was this matter of the assholes downstairs. They were planning an attack right here in Berlin. He was sure that he wouldn't be able to get out of the building without running the gauntlet - Zayd would want him dead. They didn't know Carrie was up here yet, thank God. But even with her in the picture, would he be able to just bail, and let them go do their thing? Whatever else Quinn was, he was loyal to his team and his country. If he knew about a terror plot, he couldn't just wash his hands of it and walk away.

If he called Dar Adal that night, would there be sufficient information to trace them, thwart their plan? He didn't think so. He wasn't sure what they were planning, but it sounded large-scale. But he had no details – no location, no timing, methods: nothing. Quinn needed to consider the best path. In the past, without Carrie involved, he might have done something crazy, like go undercover and join their team. Try to get to their stronghold, and paint and kill. Once they got back to their HQ, he'd have Dar send in heavy ordnance. Then he'd boogie, and watch with binocs from a distance, while the M-9 Reapers were called in, and wiped them all off the face of the Earth. That was the way it worked in principle, anyway.

But that required embedding himself, and that was terribly dangerous for the operative. There had to be a better way, a safer way, so he could stay in Berlin, and assist Carrie, too. He understood better now, out of the grip of fever and delusion, that he had more reasons to stay alive than to die. To be near her, help her figure out the mess she was in, retrieve and repair the shambles of her normal life. She was going to insist on staying here, and solving her problems, not melting away. In retrospect, this was the only path she could take, and expect to have her daughter in her life. So this was no time for Quinn to be reckless with his own life. He cared about the outcome more than he dared to say.

The shambles of her life, ah, there was another matter. He considered the boyfriend. Was he still in the picture? Despite his outward concerns about the intrigue, the terrorists, the documents –he felt an undercurrent of personal discomfort around this. Did she love Jonas? Want to be with him? He wondered if he'd missed his opportunity two years before, and if Carrie would never again see him as more than a trusted colleague. But he didn't think so. She had come after him, to find him when he disappeared from the hideout. And it didn't feel like it, not when she had crawled into bed last night, not at all. Sharing a bed had felt better than that. Natural. But as usual, they hadn't talked about it.

Carrie turned her head to the side, closed her eyes, and laid her head on her arms. She was about to drop off, when she was startled awake by Quinn's voice.

"You don't have to sleep sitting up," he said quietly. Her eyes opened and she popped her head back up. He moved over carefully, and patted the bed next to him.

"I'm ok," she said. "Just resting my eyes."

"Sure you are. When you fall out of that chair, though, the thud will wake me up. So you might as well lie down," Quinn said, with a straight face. But she could hear levity in his voice.

"I'm ok," she repeated irritably.

Silence fell between them again, for a moment. Why was it so hard for him to speak of these things? Finally, Quinn surprised himself by blurting out a personal question.

"Did you see Jonas?"

Carrie looked at him, tried to calculate why he was asking. His face was neutral, as usual.

"No," she said, looking down at her hands. "I, … no."

"Do you want to call him? Tell him where you are?"

"When you bugged out, Jonas and I … well, he left. And not on the best terms," she said. She sounded like she was about to cry. Fuck, he thought. That's not what I wanted. He didn't know what to say next. So he waited.

"I don't think we'll get back together," she said dully. Finally, Quinn found his tongue.

He wanted to say, he wasn't right for you. Or, that ungrateful bastard, look what he threw away. "I'm sorry," he rasped. It was all he could come up with.

"Yeah," Carrie said. "Another link in my chain of dysfunctional relationships," she said. "All my fault, as usual."

"We're all dysfunctional," Quinn said. That got her attention, and she turned to eye him. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the plastic ties she had found the other night, the ones with his blood on them. She held them up, and Quinn looked at them, and then back at her. He felt pinned there, a guilty look spreading over his face.

"You left," Carrie said. "You walked out of the hideout, and took these. You were going to commit suicide, rather than let Jonas take you to a hospital. Why?"

"I wouldn't have left," he said accusingly, "if _you_ had been there, instead of him."

Something flared in her eyes, then quieted down. She frowned at him. "Don't dodge the question. You were going to off yourself, and make sure your body couldn't be found. _Why_?"

"If they had found me in a hospital, or a morgue, they'd put it together. You'd get made, and you'd get tracked down again. You'd never be free, or worse, they'd just kill you," he choked out. He felt naked, he felt like someone had taken a butter knife and spread his feelings all over his face.

"I can't believe you thought I'd be better off without you," she said, desolate. She threw the plastic ties on the floor, and put her arms back on the window, facing out and away. She looked angry, but a tear trickled down one cheek, shining in the thin light. "That's insane."

"I don't feel like that now," Quinn said, guardedly, trying to feel his way through this. Emotional minefields were not his forté.

Carrie turned her head, just looking at him. Turned and stood, then sat down on the bed, where he'd indicated she should lie down before. Quinn squirmed. First he'd asked her to join him on the bed, and now that she had, he was uncomfortable. She reached up with one hand and wiped the tear off her cheek.

"You don't, huh." Carrie said, reaching out. "That's good." She put her hand on his shoulder, stroking up and down. Quinn was shirtless in the bed after Hussein's repeat suturing, and the direct contact of her skin on his made him break out in goosebumps. He tried, one last time, to be tough, resist blurting everything out.

"Yeah," he said, shivering. "I'd rather be alive than dead."

"Yeah," Carrie said, after a while, still stroking his arm. "Me too."

She turned and lay down on the sliver of available bed, her back to Quinn. He had no choice but to move very close to her, or she'd roll and fall off. She was basically forcing him to snuggle. That was good. Her body heat was comforting. She could use a shower, but fuck it. So could he.

A hush fell over the room. The light from the nearby window lit Carrie's brow, her ear, and shone off her hair. The streetlights outside reflected off the wet pavement below, and in the azure glow, her hair looked almost white. Seemingly acting of its own volition, Quinn's hand came up and began to stroke Carrie's hair back from her forehead. It was so soft, like a chinchilla or a mink. He helplessly caressed it again. Downcast, he didn't know what else to say. He was a man of few words. He searched for some, the right ones, wanting so badly to connect, give comfort. Carrie closed her eyes.

"Quinn?" she said, his name a heartbroken syllable.

"Yeah?" he said, his voice growing hoarse with emotion.

"How the fuck did we end up here?"

"Where?"

"Here, in this place, being hunted. We could have done better together. We could have made so many other choices," she said. "I looked for you, you know. I really did."

He pulled closer behind her, her head nearby on the pillow. His breath stirred the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. He put his hand on her hip, and left it there.

"In every crowd, in every store, through every doorway. At train stations and mosques. I looked for you for two years. I had dreams about you," she said. "And you said it doesn't matter now. But it does."

"Yeah," Quinn said, not even knowing how to answer. She had dreamed of him. Was this a question? A test? He needed to answer correctly. It was like juggling Lalique figurines.

"Yeah," he ventured. "It does matter." He lowered his nose into her hair. Unwashed, uncared-for, and her hair still smelled delicious. How did she do that? _Eau de Carrie_ , he thought.

She didn't move, she just lay still and felt him breathing into her. His breathing was slow and deep, like he was meditating.

"When we leave, we leave here together, ok? You can't just go fuck off, and take some crazy chances. Or disappear. Not without talking to me. I'm not losing you again."

Shamed, moved, and altogether humbled, Quinn answered as briefly as possible. His hand on her hip moved up and down, soothingly.

"OK, Carrie." he said. It was the best he could do. For now.

They had both relaxed. Quinn's hand still stroking her hip, she wiggled close back into him. And kept wiggling. Finally, she sat up, exasperated. "Shit," she enunciated, and pulled her jacket off. Quinn watched this development with hungry interest. What did she have in mind? He was shot, infected, he was in no shape for... but she wasn't disrobing. She just took off the shoulder holster, dropped it on the floor, and set the weapon loose on the side table.

"Keep it close," he advised.

"Always," she said, and jumped back in bed next to Quinn, resuming her spoon position, pulling up the covers as she lay back.

They settled back in together. Under the covers, Quinn's arm folded around her waist, as she got comfortable, with one arm crooked under the pillow. "OK?" she asked, referring to his injuries.

"Fine," he said briefly. If she moved any farther back, she would figure out just how fine. Sick or not, her immediate proximity had an... effect.

"You know?" she began, closing her eyes again. "Way back, when I was trying to pull one over on Majid Javadi?"

"Yeah, sure. Yoga class," he said sleepily. Exciting or not, her warmth was starting to put him back to sleep. Must be the medication.

"I said I wasn't sure whether I liked being watched over by you."

"Mmm-hmm," he replied. His nose was in her hair again. It was an animal thing, this closeness. He hadn't had enough of it, and certainly not from someone he cared about.

"You should know," she said. "I do like it."

"Good," Quinn said.

They fell asleep like that, police sirens, car alarms, shouting voices off in the distance, all of it seeming very far away and unimportant. Why was that? Quinn thought. They were in as much danger as ever. But at that moment, it didn't seem to matter.

The sun rose and the light woke Carrie first, who sat up and grabbed the burner iPhone, which was buzzing away on the desk next to her sidearm. She scrubbed a hand across her face, and swiped it open. The display said "Otto Düring." She thumbed the message open, and held it out to Quinn.

"Black Jack says 10:00 Ostbahnhof, Souvenirs Geschenke, under the clock."

Carrie's eyes lit with hope.

"Saul," she breathed, and swiped the phone shut.


	12. Chapter 12

"I'm going with you," Quinn insisted. He certainly didn't look ready to go, on his stomach in the hospital bed. The morning light illuminated the florid color of his injuries and the darkness of the hollows under his eyes. He groaned as Hussein removed the dressing and bandaged up the exit wound again. Carrie was parked on a stool in the corner, looking at her phone, paging through maps of Berlin and planning an on-foot route to the Ostbahnhof.

"No," she said, looking up. "You're not well. I can do this myself, Quinn."

"She is right," Hussein said. He injected Quinn's hip with another antibiotic cocktail. "Not well enough. Tomorrow, perhaps. At least now, you are done with this," said the doctor, removing the IV needles from the back of Quinn's hand.

Quinn sucked air in through his teeth, hissing at the sudden pain. "Sorry," Hussein intoned under his breath. "Some food?"

"Yeah, that'd be good," Quinn said, mostly to get Hussein out of earshot.

Carrie's eyes followed the doctor out of the room. "What would we have done without him?" she said, thoughtfully.

"Died," Quinn said, a bitter note entering his voice. He tried to roll on his back, and found it a painful enterprise. Carrie glanced at him sharply, put the phone down, and came over to assist. After tugging at the pillow and arranging the blanket, she got him settled. When she finished, Quinn used the opportunity to reach up and grab her arms above the elbows. She leaned back, instinctively trying to pull away, but he held her tight. He was holding her at arms length, so she'd be forced to look him in the eye.

"Every time you go out there, you take a _huge risk_ ," Quinn said intensely. "You want me to check with you before I leave, or do something dangerous? Look at _yourself_ ," he said, irritated. He let her arms go.

"Quinn," Carrie said, softly. "This is the _only opportunity_. If I miss this drop, then what? I don't even know who's meeting me. I'd assume Saul, But it could be one of his agents. Or maybe Allison? I can't be sure. But we do know that I can't miss this chance to look through the stolen documents. You can review them with me, here. Tonight," she said, trying to soothe.

"I should go with you," he said, bullheaded, as stubborn as the cement block he'd been trying to tie himself to.

"No, you shouldn't," Carrie said. "I'll be careful. And I'll be right back," she insisted. She tried to stroke his forehead and his hair, but he turned his head away from her touch, and mumbled something.

"What was that?" Carrie inquired, one eyebrow raised.

"I'm afraid to let you out of my sight," Quinn said, turning his face back towards her. He didn't specify why, that he'd feel the same for any fellow agent, or what. But his eyes were vulnerable.

Carrie choked on her possible responses, as Hussein came in with bowls of porridge, and sat down with Quinn. She decided the matter was as settled as it was going to be. She had no choice. She bustled about, getting ready to leave. She tidied the room, putting Quinn's computer in the canvas bag and shoving it into the corner, under a pile of bedsheets. She took Quinn's sidearm, and with the safety on, she helped him conceal it under his pillow. He made his knife disappear under the covers as well – she assumed he was planting it and the leg holster under his pantleg.

When she had satisfied herself that all the weapons and sensitive items were camouflaged or hidden in the closet, she looked at herself. She was wearing the same suit of clothes she'd run off in, no help for that. She started to pull the brown wig on again, and arrange it, facing into the hazy mirror hanging over Hussein's table of medical equipment.

"No. "

She turned back to Quinn.

"What?" she asked. "It's all I have," she said.

"You're wearing it too much, you're gonna get made. You need something different," he asserted.

Hussein looked from one of them to the other. "One moment," he said, and walked out to the front room. Carrie could hear him bang a closet door open, and rummage around inside. He had been so sympathetic and helpful. Who knew what he had up his sleeve?

A moment later, he came back in with a stack of clothes, with a pair of tortoiseshell half-moon glasses folded on top. Carrie took the bundle from him, set it at the foot of Quinn's bed, and held a piece of the clothing up. A women's scrub top, with pink and yellow bunnies cavorting across a field of light green. Matching scrub pants in green, and there was an accompanying light green headscarf, a small one.

"Your wife's," Carrie said, with a sad smile.

Hussein nodded. "A pediatrician," he said solemnly.

"This will work. Thanks," she said, nodding at the door, and fortunately, Hussein got the hint, and left the room so she could change. She looked at Quinn. "Well?" she asked, demanding that he turn his head and not gape at her while she stripped down.

"Yeah, alright," he complained, theatrically putting his hand across his eyes. Only a moment or two went by before he weakened and peeked through his fingers. He was a fucking spy, what did she expect? He watched her undress, down to a bra and panties. She was gorgeous, slender but lush, even the little bit he could see told him that, with her back turned and her undergarments on. He felt a tiny bit guilty at invading her privacy – but not that much. It wasn't the first time he'd surveilled her, but definitely the best-ever view. She wiggled into the clothes, and turned back to face him. He dropped his hand then, uncovering his face.

"How do I look?" Carrie asked, putting the glasses on.

"Put the glasses at the end of your nose, and look over the top. Yeah, like that," Quinn advised. "Now the headscarf. There, you've aged ten years in two minutes." _And so will I_ , Quinn thought, _when you step out that door without me._

"Hmmm. I look like my Aunt Beatrice," she said, inspecting herself in the mirror. "That's better."

Quinn lay back, and tried to smile. It didn't take. "Go, and be careful," he said. "Hussein doesn't have enough morphine for two of us."

Carrie took Quinn's smaller Smith and Wesson, and tucked it into her crossbody bag.

"I'm always careful, because I have something to live for," she said. She didn't look at him, though. Must have been talking about Franny.

"Good," he sighed. "and good luck."

Impulsively, she walked over to Quinn, bent over, and kissed him on the cheek, so fast he didn't have time to react. She pulled the burqa over the whole thing, to facilitate her escape from the building. Then she was gone.

Quinn heard the door open and close, and wished he could struggle to the window in time to see her leave. He wondered where she'd stash the burqa, and how she'd get back in. Everything she did made him nervous.

Hussein walked back into the bedroom at that moment, and caught the look on Peter's face as he strained to turn his head far enough to see out the window. He walked over, and looked out.

"She is across the courtyard," he reported. "Now, going through an alley. There is a way through back there. And, she is gone, I cannot see her now." He turned to look at Quinn.

"She is not your wife," Hussein said.

Quinn avoided eye contact, looking down and away. "No," he said simply.

"Perhaps someday," said Hussein, "When you are both safe?"

Quinn just looked at him. What a statement. He had no idea what to say.

"Safe? I don't even know if we'll live through the week," he said. Carrie, his wife? What a bizarre thought.

"I am doctor, I see lots of people, for many years. I have seen many things, how people act. And you... you love her." said Hussein.

Quinn shook his head rapidly, as if he'd been slapped. How embarrassing.

"I can see it," Hussein explained, apologetic. "No? I am sorry, this is delicate matter. I will let you rest," he said, headed back to the kitchen. "Maybe tomorrow, you are well enough, you can leave. I will be happy if you stay two more days," said the doctor, his tone indicating that this was medical advice.

"OK," Quinn said. He hoped Twenty Questions was over. He turned on his side, tried to rest. Carrie was out there. All he could think of was if she would come back in one piece. Marriage was so far out of the purview that it had never crossed his mind. But, he pondered, that's how most people think.

Love, though. That was another dangerous word. He had said it out loud only once in recent memory. On a job, he had been recommending a new silencer to Rob. "I love this," he'd said. For fuck's sake.

He knew what he felt for Carrie. And he guessed that was the word for it. It was why he couldn't extinguish it. It was why it kept him awake. It tormented him, worked his mind into knots, filled his days with anxiety and his nights with worry. It made him do crazy things, take chances. It would have been easier, had it been something else.

Even Hussein could see it. And she felt something, too, she'd thought of him and missed him, all these years. It did matter.

He sighed, and tried to get his mind off it. It was going to be a long day, and there was nothing to do but wait.

Carrie hadn't been gone for an hour, when Quinn got restless, and thought he'd try his legs. As he sat up, he heard Hussein's remonstration with someone who was apparently trying to shove into the room again. Quinn put both legs over the edge of the bed. This was costly in terms of pain, but put him on better footing if he needed to use the knife, or god forbid, the pistol. The report would bring them all running, so he tensed himself for a knife fight, and hoped it wouldn't escalate.

This time there was a polite tap at bedroom door, after which it creaked open. That behavior was an improvement, anyway. Looming in the doorway was Zayd's lieutenant, the one Quinn figured for the smart one in the bunch.

"I know you're not a spy," the man said.

Quinn grunted. "And what does your Emir say?"

"Hajik wants to execute you." Well, Quinn had expected that. He'd been hunted by worse. "No one supports him, only Utku," the man said diffidently. So, they were divided. Quinn was betting on that. "You were in Syria?"

"Until 20 days ago," Quinn said, standing with difficulty.

"What were you doing there?" the jihadi inquired.

"Protecting Yaseer Ramali's trucks," Quinn said, pulling a name from a recent job.

"You work for him?"

"For whoever pays the most," Quinn said dismissively. It seemed the wisest tack to take. Who was in Syria, if they were not born there, except soldiers and guns for hire? And he didn't want to be identified as military.

"A mercenary," the man said, regarding Quinn with a different look. Quinn didn't care for it, but then this whole situation was a shitshow. "Do you really think they're watching us here? The police?"

"What do you think?" Quinn retorted. The threads of doubt he'd started to weave were taking shape.

"I think," the man said, "Hajik is no Emir."

Quinn gave a tight smile. The man turned and walked back out of the bedroom, Hussein shutting both doors behind him with a worried glance back at Peter.

Alone, Quinn sank back on the bed, and let out a shaky breath. Fuck, and he was worried about Carrie. The war was right here.


	13. Chapter 13

Carrie arrived at Ostbahnhof ahead of the appointed time, giving herself a chance to scope out the meeting location.

She had been to the station many times, with Jonas and by herself. It was a huge, open, airy space, bright from the overhead skylights and floor to ceiling windows. Express and long-distance intercity departures could be made here, and an array of restaurants and other services were available to support travelers. Carrie knew the gift shop that the text message had mentioned, and it was front-and-center by one of the main entrances. Above the shop, a huge signboard indicated the times of station arrivals and departures. There were probably about 10 security cameras panning that area night and day. It wasn't the place to meet if you didn't want to be seen. But she had a disguise in place, and maybe Saul knew something she didn't. In any case, it was the most public of public places; always thronged with people. That reduced some kinds of risk.

She had taken many turns and twists to get here, as well as two train lines. She didn't think she was tailed, but it was helpful to have a mental map for an escape route on foot, in case she was followed or attacked, and couldn't get to a train platform. She stood at the top of a staircase near a pillar, and examined her surroundings carefully. Below, a crowd of American students came through the lobby with matching t-shirts, carrying violin and clarinet cases, elbowing each other and laughing. Business-oriented types marched across the expanse of the first floor tiles, men and women on a mission, briefcases clutched, conservative suits buttoned down. Families straggled across her field of view, toting clusters of bags stacked one upon another. Gaggles of children in tow, they herded their offspring towards their destinations, juggling teddy bear backpacks, diaper bags and dripping ice cream cones.

As always, the sight of small children twisted a key in her heart, opening a chamber of nostalgia and grief. She used to be normal. When would she see Franny again? Would she really have to abandon all hope, and become an "unperson"? If she got her hands on the files today, she thought, that might not be necessary. But she couldn't begin to picture what the future looked like, or how she'd unsnarl the intrigue and take the heat off herself and Quinn. One step at a time, she repeated in her mind. It would have to be her mantra, at least until she understood who was behind the attempt on her life.

When she first arrived, she had stopped at a _Fahrkarten_ kiosk, and bought a one-day full-city _Tageskarte_. If the meetup went south, she wanted to be able to get on any available local train. And what would be worse than trying to hop on during the heat of a pursuit but not being able to board? She clutched the ticket, and tried to keep her head down.

It was 9:56. She walked down the stairs instead of taking an escalator, trying to move at a purposeful pace. The pace of someone on a journey: someone who was moving towards something, not away from it.

There was a huge analog clock hanging from the ceiling outside the souvenir shop. Was that the one he meant? He couldn't intend that spot for the drop, could he? It was under about three different closed-circuit camera bubbles.

Carrie stepped inside the store, and strolled towards the back. The place was crammed with the usual assortment of touristy crap, mugs, keychains, kitschy t-shirts, most of it made in China. She smirked at an ashtray with "I heart Berlin" emblazoned on the bottom. If she got out of this mess alive, she was going to buy one of those, and a pack of Camels. She and Quinn were going to smoke them until they puked, she swore to God. She walked to the magazine rack. Looking around, she noticed a small wall clock above the rack of travel maps. That must have been what the message meant.

She stepped under the store clock and took a look around, peering over the glasses. She tried to see if any security cameras were angled towards her, and while she couldn't be sure with such a quick scan around, she thought they were not. At the counter, a bored clerk licked his finger and turned the pages of a copy of _Bunte_ magazine, oblivious to her presence. She turned back to the maps and pretended to study them.

She only had to wait a minute or two. Using her peripheral vision, she saw someone, a man in a dark suit, approaching from the entrance. She could make out a familiar silhouette of curly graying hair and beard. An arm reached across her line of sight, and Saul's hand grabbed a map off the wall rack.

"Excuse me," Saul said. Carrie saw him extending his other hand towards her, and opened hers in response. With his right hand, he picked up the map, and in the same motion with the left hand, he dropped a USB key into her palm. She pocketed it immediately.

She could see him out of the corner of her eye. He opened the map and held it up, and pointed to it, saying, " _Bitte_ , do you know how to get to, um," and indicating with gestures that Carrie should hold the other end of the map and look helpful.

Under his breath, Saul whispered, "You were right, I'm being followed. I tried to lose my tail but I don't think I did. We have about thirty seconds," he said, tense as piano wire.

Carrie's heart had already been pounding, but with this information, her pulse somehow increased. She tried to keep a clear head.

"Who? Who's having you followed?" she asked, whispering.

"Allison Carr had me followed. And Dar doesn't trust me. I don't know why, because surveillance started before I got these files for you. _Now_ they _know_ I took the documents, so now, they have a reason, but... here they come. _Shit_ ," he finished, crumpling the map. Using every bit of her training and self-control, Carrie stayed cool and said " _Ich weiß nicht_ ," shrugged, and turned her back on Saul, walking off slowly towards the candy counter. It took all her willpower not to look back. Behind her, the confrontation got louder, and she could hear Saul curse, along with the sound of a couple of men, no, at least three men, coming to take him into custody. Fuck, she thought. If they knew he stole the documents, they weren't tailing him anymore, they were arresting him.

She obliged herself to make leisurely movements, to deliberately pick up something small from the candy rack. Then she walked to the counter, where she set it down. Nonchalant, she indicated to the clerk that she wanted to be rung up. The clerk scanned the item, told her the price in Euro, then craned his neck to look over her shoulder at the rising commotion in the corner. She pretended to dig for exact change, and waited for a hand to fall on her shoulder. But when she turned a bit to look at the arrest in progress, nobody was looking at her at all, let alone coming after her.

They were on a mission to take Saul into custody, and with that singularity of purpose, they had dismissed the brunette in scrubs to be an innocent passerby. The agents were patting Saul down, and during the search, one of them found another USB key from his jacket pocket. He held it up to the others, at which point they stopped frisking Saul and started to frog-march him out of the store. She let out a restrained half-breath – Saul must have made a second copy, put it on another thumb drive, and carried it with him. If he was taken into custody, he would be able to claim that he had not passed the stolen data on.

She took a cautious glance at the agents. One of them, Rogers, she knew from a previous gig, Istanbul station. Carrie saw him looking around, speaking into a radio. She turned back to the checkout counter, so she could present Rogers with the back of her head. It was socially impossible not to say anything about it to the store clerk, so she pulled a concerned face.

" _Polizei? Er etwas zu stehlen?"_ Carrie said, putting on her best _Berliner_ accent.

The clerk shook his head, shrugged, and made change. Not his problem. Nice. A customer is manhandled out of his store by a bunch of dudes with dark suits and shades, and all this guy does is watch. He's all ready for the Stasi to come back, Carrie thought. Or maybe the Men in Black.

She walked out of the shop, moving at a casual pace. She turned right and headed up a set of stairs to the platforms. Carrie was able to sneak a look at Saul as the men were rushing him out of the building and put him in a black SUV, which was idling in the fire lane outside the station entrance. She half-hoped Saul would turn and look back at her, but she knew he wouldn't. The agents had taken her for an innocent onlooker, and Saul wouldn't do anything to draw their attention back to her, not now.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she looked down at her hand: gum. She had been so tightly wound that she hadn't even looked at her purchase. Dropping it into her bag, she risked walking a bit faster. She picked a train that was going back to the center of town. She needed to run a couple more errands before she went back to Hussein's neighborhood.

Carrie took deep, cleansing breaths as she boarded the train, a technique she last practiced in a yoga class while Jonas looked after Franny. Was that really only a month ago? It felt like years had gone by. Inside the train car, a recorded message came on from the P.A. system, reciting the list of stops this train would make. Carrie took a seat in the corner, and took out her phone, as almost all commuters immediately did.

She swiped it open, but looked down at it, unseeing. Christ, that was close. She only stopped feeling the pounding of her heart through the scrub shirt after the train started to pull out of the station. It was hard to calm down.

It didn't help that she had just obtained the disturbing information that Allison was the one who set up a tail on Saul. Did that mean Allison was dirty? Or that Saul really _was_ a problem? He had stolen the documents for her, at least, she thought he had done it. So now, he _was_ guilty of taking the classified documents and handing them off. But the initial breach... Carrie's gut said couldn't have been Saul. So, who? And why did Dar Adal feel like he couldn't trust Saul anymore? They went way back, those two. It was hard to picture them in any but the most mild professional conflict. It made no sense.

She hoped Saul had come through and gotten her everything she needed, and she was betting that he had. But there was no way to tell, not right now.

Quinn stood near the window, staring out through a gap in the curtains, and checking his stamina. The very worst of the infection was past. He had no fever, and he could tell his strength was returning. A few more good meals, some sleep, and he'd be alright. Maybe not in top fighting form, but at least able to walk, or even run, if he had to. And, he reflected, he would probably have to.

His mind had spun around his problems since his most recent visit from the jihadis. He had figured that his presence in the building was high on the radar of the terror cell. This was confirmed by the visit from Zayd's lieutenant, a few hours earlier. He knew a confrontation was coming, but he couldn't see what kind, or how long it would last. It was possible that they'd decide guest privileges didn't pertain to infidels. In that case, they might just come upstairs and violate Hussein's claim on Quinn as a patient, ambush him, and drag him outside. If they got the drop on him in this way, he'd end up right back in those dumpsters he was trying to crawl into a couple days ago. Best case, he'd have to shoot his way out, endangering Hussein and bringing police scrutiny down hard on the incident. Still, he'd take a few with him, if they busted in and stirred the shit. He had enough rounds, an extra clip, and maybe if he shot enough of them, the rest would flee.

But all of that assumed that none of them were packing, and that none were a decent shot. Even with German gun laws as strict as they were, they had to have some small arms. That possibility of a shootout was the worst – it could leave him dead, Hussein in the lurch, and Carrie exposed and alone. The thought turned his stomach.

Another possibility was that they were calculating how to hire him as a mercenary, for a fee. He thought it was even more likely, and that made him more nervous. Zayd might not be in favor of the idea, but if the lieutenant had as much power as he would like to have, Zayd's opinion wouldn't mean a thing. Quinn had said "the real Jihad was in Syria," but that didn't mean _he_ wanted to go there. He needed to be here, in Berlin. He had made some dubious choices while he was ill and feverish. But that was behind him. It wouldn't happen again.

He had spent a lot of time listening at the air vent, realizing that every scrap of information would be critical in determining the scope of the terrorists' plans. But it was hard to make out what they were saying. They often talked too fast, or talked over each other, arguing in a mix of Arabic, German, and English. He knew a decent amount of Arabic and German, but even if he'd been in the room, he would not have been able to understand the discussion. He was irritated now that he'd let himself be seen. He and Carrie could have snuck out of Hussein's building safely, without being recognized at all. But that option was no longer availble.

Quinn flexed his knees, and then stretched himself up to full height. He was 6'1" barefoot, and when he stretched as far as he could, he could almost touch the ceiling of Hussein's dingy quarters. The pain in his side flared briefly, but subsided when he lowered his arms and stood with normal posture.

He told himself he was watching out for activity related to the cell, and anyone who would come to attack him. But of course, he also was watching the alley across the courtyard, waiting for a small figure in a blue burqa to emerge. He wasn't a praying man, but he hoped she'd made it to the drop safely. He hoped the information she wanted was already in her hands. He hoped she hadn't been seen and identified, and taken into false custody by whoever was trying to kill her.

Quinn was learning. The more he had to lose, the greater his tendency to imagine new and horrible ways to lose it. The worry never stopped. He knew he would be able to do more to protect her in the future, when he was healthy and his brain was firing on all cylinders. But for right now, all he could do was watch and wait.

There was quiet double-tap at the bedroom door. It creaked open slightly, and Hussein's bearded visage came into view.

"She is not back yet?" Hussein said, stating the obvious.

"No," Quinn grated, gazing out the window.

"She will come back. You must eat," Hussein said. He held out a plate of lamb stew.

Quinn took it from him, somewhat overwhelmed. "In case something happens, and I need to leave quickly, I want to thank you now, Hussein. I'll never be able to thank you enough," he said. "You didn't know it at the time, but you saved both of our lives." Mere gratitude was not sufficient, but he hoped it was enough. He had nothing else to offer.

Hussein nodded. "I am glad to help. I cannot know what you are fighting for, or against. But Ariya's love for humanity taught me," he said, referring again to his deceased wife. "I assume most people are good. At least, until I see otherwise," he said, disgusted, looking at the floor.

Quinn nodded, and sat on the stool. He ate the stew as he considered their options. No large local device would be acceptable. Hussein was one of the most decent human beings he'd ever encountered, and a bomb big enough to take out the scumbags downstairs would also harm Hussein, wrecking his building and livelihood, if it didn't kill him outright. He couldn't let that happen. He smiled at his benefactor, who smiled warmly in return.

"It's good," he said, and shoveled in the stew. He hoped to Christ Carrie had the files. They'd go through them together, and try to make sense of it. They'd brainstorm about Zayd's crew and try to evaluate what they knew, and sort out a response to their malevolent schemes. He was surprised to find that in some weird way, he felt thrilled. Whatever disasters precipitated it, he was working with Carrie again. Being back together with her gave him confidence. It was too bad the sky had to fall before they both understood it: they were better together.

In silence, Quinn sat and ate dinner with the kind doctor, sneaking peeks out the window now and again. It was late afternoon, and he'd expected her hours before. He just wished she'd fucking hurry.


	14. Chapter 14

Waiting and worrying, Quinn leaned against the windowsill, fighting back the gut pain that had flared up from his long hours of keeping watch. He continuously scanned the street below and the alleys that fed into it, along with the grassy median that sprawled between this apartment building and its block neighbors. He had been watching for Carrie's return, but instead of a flowing blue garment emerging from in between the brick buildings, all he had seen was a slow assembly of Zayd's men in the yard outside.

They stood around, shuffled their feet, smoked. Zayd himself joined them after a period of time, and stood with arms folded, speaking quietly to them, and looking up at the curtain that Quinn was concealed behind. The lights were off in the bedroom, and Quinn was pretty sure he couldn't be seen, but it increased his anxiety all the same.

He had no doubt that these guys frequently hung out here, just to get some air. However, he was also sure they had another purpose: they were waiting to see if he'd come outside of his own accord. Once he was out of the building and away from Hussein's property, he was no longer a guest. Quinn figured Zayd was planning to jump him as he left the building through the only passable exit. The front door was the only means of egress, other than a cellar passageway which was blocked up with abandoned furniture. So much for the fire code.

He supposed he could go out a window. It wouldn't be the first time he'd scrambled down a wall in a pursuit, or to make an escape. But he wasn't alone; the windows they'd have to use held out over a two-story drop. Agile and healthy as she was, he was afraid Carrie would break an ankle: it would be just their luck. He considered more complicated escapes, in which Carrie would walk out in the burqa, and he would go out the window and down the wall. However, he was concerned about becoming separated from her. If any part of the plan didn't work, they'd be split up again. Not acceptable.

 _Fuck it_ , he thought. I'm going to face them, bullshit my way through, something, so we can leave together through the front door. If he could only be sure that Carrie would conceal herself under the burqa as they exited, stay disguised and keep safe. Knowing her, though, and how she never shied away from situations that would make most people's hair stand on end, he was worried that she'd take frightening chances. She was fearless, resolute and almost monomaniacal in pursuing her chosen goals, at the cost of scaring the shit out of anyone around her who cared about her well-being.

That train of thought got him brooding about the mob that murdered Sandy Bachman, back in Islamabad. His dilemma, his non-choice, required that he abandon Sandy to the vicious horde and fire into the crowd, practically driving over them to get Carrie out of there alive. From the moment Sandy had been pulled from the car, it could only have gone one way. Keeping Carrie out of reach of potential mob violence wasn't a decision he made. He just did it. So he guessed they were both pretty good at being tenacious, and at taking risks. It was the life they lead.

He remembered her single-minded, almost robotic behavior after the incident. She had still been splashed with blood. Quinn's cortisol levels were still at an all-time high when she prodded him to hurry, get inside and brief the ambassador. He'd asked for a minute to calm his nerves. And she'd had the extraordinary nerve to suggest he could have done more to save Sandy. In that moment, he almost wished he hadn't saved her, that he'd never laid eyes on her. What the fuck had she been thinking?

He snapped out of the memory, looking over the windowsill as light started to fade in the west. Those days were over, he thought. She was different. Or, was he the one that had changed? Maybe some of both, he considered.

She didn't miss an opportunity to touch him, had crawled into bed to sleep with him, had stroked his hair while he fought off the worst of the infection. He had started to crave her touch like an addict craves dope, her fingers leaving a burning trace on his skin. He could have regarded her as an opportunist, someone so glad to have an ally that she'd pair up with any trustworthy defender. But he knew better. The note of anguish in her voice when she described how she'd looked for him for two years – it was all true. She had been heartbroken. She was softer, now, and more considerate.

He was ruminating on these matters and watching Zayd's men mill around and jabber when he finally caught sight of Carrie. It had to be her. Exactly the right height, the woman in the burqa emerged from the wide street at the end of the block and stayed on the sidewalk. She carried a canvas bag, which appeared to be filled with packages. She came from the direction of a two-way street that led out of the ghetto. She moved smoothly, at a moderate pace chosen to avoid attracting attention. She gave the jihadis a wide berth. Zayd and his men didn't give her a second glance, no doubt assuming it was Hussein's neighbor or a relative. It was only when she disappeared from view up the stairs that he let out a percussive breath. Christ. He paced back and forth until he heard Hussein open the front door. Agitated beyond tolerance, he strode to the door of the bedroom and flung it open.

Carrie walked right past him, through the open bedroom door, whipping off the burqa as she went. Quinn gave Hussein a single raised-eyebrow look that said, "So, there we have it," which Hussein returned with mild amusement. Quinn closed the bedroom door behind them.

"Where the hell have you been?" Quinn snapped in a frustrated whisper. "The meeting was at 10:00 AM!"

Carrie pulled off the headscarf and the wig, and dropped them on the floor. Reaching into her pocket, she produced a slim USB key. "Got it. Thanks for asking," she said sarcastically.

"I have been _trying_ to _decide_ whether I needed to go out and _search_ for you," he said, his voice low, his eyes flickering dangerously.

The old Carrie would have snorted and turned her back, or ignored him altogether. But the present-day Carrie set down all her things, and walked right over to Quinn and into his arms, pulling him into a tight hug. Startled, he wrapped his arms around her in return, at a loss for words. She squeezed him tight around the middle and let out a heavy sigh. Her head fit right under the hollow of his chin. Quinn held on and didn't let go, eyes closed. They hadn't held each other like this since the day he'd turned up late to her father's funeral. It was just a hug, but it meant so much; it felt so fucking good.

"I'm here," she said, finally loosening her grip on him. "You ok?"

He reluctantly released her, holding her shoulders, just far enough out of his embrace that he could look right down into her face. "Yeah. Fine. Mostly sore from standing and watching our neighbors loitering under the trees." He finally released her and took a step back. "So what kept you?" he asked, trying to play it cool.

"Saul came to the drop himself," she said, sitting heavily down on one of the kitchen chairs. "He passed me this thumb drive, had time to get out about four sentences. Then, our own agents came in and apprehended him, took him into custody."

Quinn sat down on the bed, facing Carrie. "Fuck _me_ ," he uttered, shaking his head.

"He said he knew I was right, that someone had been tailing him. And that it was Allison who put the tail on him."

Quinn frowned. "What?" he said. "Why? What else did he say?"

"That Dar doesn't trust him anymore. You have any idea why that might be?"

"Not a clue," Quinn said.

"Well, when we get out of here, maybe you can help clear that up," she suggested.

"Yeah, maybe," Quinn said. "I hope the files have what you need."

Frazzled as she was, Carrie managed a tired smile. "You and me both. Anyway, then I went shopping. Got us some things," she said. Pulling the canvas bag over to her chair, she reached in and produced a flat package, wrapped in brown paper. He said nothing, just gave her a quizzical look.

"I had to go all the way up to Heinersdorf to get it. Changed trains two times. But this is what we need," she said. Unwrapping the package, she held the black and yellow box out to Quinn.

He took it. "Ah. Ears," he said. "I like it." Opening the box, Quinn began to examine and unpack the device.

Carrie had acquired a transmitting bug with a long antenna, which he could affix to the inside of the duct he'd been eavesdropping through. It was a civilian brand and model, nothing he'd have purchased for Agency use, but it was small and looked sturdy enough. The spec sheet said it had a 2800 meter range, which was long enough that Dar would be able to park a van across the block and still monitor their conversations, even through walls. It had a limited battery life, but it should last quite a while, since it was voice activated.

"Nice," Quinn said. "Dude said I was a spy. I might as well live up to the accusation."

"Yeah," Carrie said. "We need to get the fuck away from these guys, just as soon as we're sure you're really better. But before we go, you open the vent, and plant that thing down in the ductwork. Then, you give Dar Adal a call. Give him the coordinates, tell him which frequency it's broadcasting, and let him monitor the cell." She handed Quinn a few other items, including electrical tape, duct tape and a spool of flexible wire. "I hope you don't need anything else to get it mounted. God, I miss Max and Virgil."

"Not to worry, I got this," he said. Quinn unpackaged the unit, and set it up charging at the USB port on his computer. Then, he sat back down on the bed. "What else? It didn't take all day for you to buy a bug," Quinn said.

"I got us a car, cash deal, cheap," she said, holding up a set of keys. "We're going to need mobility. It's a 15 year old Volkswagen Polo with 160,000 miles on it. But it runs ok. And I convinced the guy that sold it to me to leave the plates on it. Extra 50 Euro. I told him I'd mail them back when I got my own plates. Shit, if we live that long, I might actually do it. Anyway, it's parked up around that corner," she said, and indicated the street from which she'd come.

"Good," Quinn said. "When do you want to leave? Hussein wants me to stay another day, but I think the sooner we get out of here, the better. Which brings me to the subject of how we get out of this building."

Carrie sighed. "Did something else happen?"

"Yeah," Quinn said. "I got another visit from their second in command. He isn't exactly confident in his leader. He asked me again if he thought they were being monitored."

"They will be," Carrie snorted. "What else did he want?"

"To know if I was really in Syria. What I was doing there," Quinn said, a trifle nervously.

"And you said?"

Quinn shrugged. "I said I'd work for the highest bidder," he said.

"Alright." Carrie said. "I don't care what you said, as long as we don't get attacked in the middle of the night, and you and I leave here together."

When Carrie caught his eye, she could swear he had a guilty look on his face. But it was fleeting.

Hussein tapped on the door, and pushed it open a crack. Once again, he invited them to partake in his evening meal. After they finished eating, Quinn told the doctor that he thought he felt well enough to go.

"You are worried about that crazy man. But you should stay another night," he cautioned.

"I can manage," Quinn said.

Hussein sighed. "I will pack you a kit," he said. "Antibiotics, pain medication, ointment, dressings. And a suture kit, in case you need."

"Thank you," Quinn said sincerely. "Thank you for taking care of me."

"You have somewhere to go?" Hussein asked, looking at both of their faces. "Someone to look after you?"

Quinn jumped as he felt Carrie's hand curl around his wrist. "He does," Carrie said. Quinn turned his hand over, and laced his fingers with hers. He swallowed around a lump, telling himself that it was just the dry air.

Hussein walked to the window, and looked down at the group of men. "Still there," he said disgustedly. "You should try to wait until they go."

Quinn was quite sure that wasn't going to happen. They were waiting for him. "We'll try," he said. Hussein took the plates and adjourned to the kitchen, while Quinn got settled back on the bed. Carrie had Quinn unlock his computer, and popped in the USB drive.

"One thousand, six hundred and thirty one files. Some of them are hundreds of pages long. _Fuck_." she said.

"Are they the right ones?" Quinn asked, eyes closed, trying to gather strength.

"I think so," she said. "This is going to take a while."

"You have time," Quinn said. He was watching her through half-closed eyes, her bright eyes intense in the glow of the computer screen.

"Quinn?" Carrie said, still looking through the document files.

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you're here," she said.

He closed his eyes and permitted himself a smile.

"Me too."


	15. Chapter 15

Quinn dozed on the bed. Carrie sat next to him, using his laptop to screen through the documents. After a couple of hours he awoke, stretched, and stood up carefully. He was almost feeling normal, at least in terms of infection.

He squatted down next to Carrie, and detached the listening device from the charger, starting to get it ready for installation. She didn't look up.

"Any progress?"

"I've scanned 39, so only about sixteen hundred to go," she lamented.

"It's been quiet," he said. "Are they still outside?" He walked to the window to see for himself.

"They all went in a while ago, now they're back out there again," Carrie said. "Just standing around."

"Figures," Quinn said, looking out through the gap in the curtains. He turned away, fiddling around with the transmitter, setting the device, and unwrapping the extendable antenna. "I'm going to plant this thing."

"OK," she said, closing the computer. "Do you need any help?"

"Don't think so," Quinn said. He pulled a chair over to the vent to use as a stepstool, and tested the decorative grate that covered it. It wasn't even bolted on. In a few moments, he handed it down to Carrie. He made some faces, but somehow managed to hoist himself up into the ductwork, and slide in. It was big enough for a man his size, but barely. She held her breath for several minutes while he mounted the bug. She didn't know how he did it, but his work was nearly silent. He slid back out of the vent and stepped back from the chair onto the floor.

"Done," he said, carefully replacing the grate. "It's transmitting. Should capture anything said in that apartment for a week or two."

"I hope it works," Carrie said.

"It's more than we had," he said. "Pack up. I want to sneak past Hussein and get going."

Carrie nodded, turned and started packing all the vital equipment, the computer and weapons, passports and disguises into her bags. "You sure you feel good enough?" she asked, pulling a zipper closed. She picked up their belongings and slung them over her shoulder.

Quinn nodded, and checked the placement of his knife. He wished he had a holster for his handgun, but she hadn't brought it. "I should be able to bluff my way out of here. I'm going to walk right through them. But you're not," he said. He picked up the burqa, and found the edge. Gathering up the fabric, he walked to Carrie and floated it over her head. He held the edge of the cover like a bridal veil, suspending it above her face and shoulders.

"Whatever happens, Carrie, I want you to walk straight out of here to the car. I'll follow. I don't want you getting involved. "

"I am involved," she said with a grim expression.

"I know," he said softly. Quinn hesitated for a moment before dropping the cover down to conceal her, like he had been considering some other intimacy. But he let the moment pass.

"Let's go."

Hussein slept heavily on the couch, turned on his side towards a tiny portable TV which was tuned to an empty channel. The white noise covered their departure. They had discussed the relative merits of waking him up and saying farewell. Carrie agreed that he'd just try to convince Quinn to stay, and follow them outside. So they had expressed their gratitude to Hussein before he went to bed. They both knew that if he was asleep up here, he wouldn't be downstairs with the jihadis, getting in the way or getting hurt. Maybe someday they'd be able to return and thank him properly for his kindness and generosity. Carrie hoped so. In the meantime, Quinn thought, it was better this way.

They tiptoed down the stairs. They didn't encounter any of Zayd's men inside the building. Quinn turned to Carrie, and spoke in a whisper.

"Wait until they're paying attention to me. Then _you_ go," he said. He slipped out the front door, leaving Carrie watching anxiously through the dirty glass window.

Quinn walked slowly out into the street. Zayd's men had formed up into a tight mob, standing with arms folded, staring at him. Zayd was at the forefront, beetle-black brows locked down into a scowl. There wouldn't be any sneaking away or sidestepping the face-off. Quinn started slowly towards them.

"I'm leaving now," Quinn said, hands held up with the palms out. He took a few more steps, angling towards the sidewalk and the side of the street Carrie indicated the car was on. Behind him, he heard the front door of Hussein's building open and close. Hopefully that was Carrie, and she would be walking down the sidewalk, keeping as far to the shadows as she could. He tried again to walk away from the conflict.

"I got no quarrel with you, man. OK?" he said. "Just let me pass."

Zayd turned his head, his eyes narrowing. "I'm gonna cut your prick," he growled, "and shove it down your throat." He pulled a knife and came after Peter in a combat stance. _Shit_. He hoped Carrie was out of sight and out of earshot already. He took a defensive posture, and he and Zayd began circling each other.

Quinn calculated the risk of reaching for his boot knife and not being able to get to it. He should have kept it more accessible, he thought with regret. But he hadn't expected this to escalate from a discussion to a knife fight in a millisecond. Unless there was a significant break in the fighting, it was better not to try to unsheathe the knife from its hidden location. If he didn't extract it instantly, his hands would be down, and Zayd would plunge the knife into his neck. He knew plenty of unarmed combat techniques, though, and he was betting on them. _Fuck_ , he thought, _we should have come out guns blazing._

His eyes wild, Zayd slashed viciously at Peter. His reach exceeded expectations, and Quinn cursed as the knife cut through his shirt and drew blood on his deltoid. He ducked a punch and turned, then came close and grappled with Zayd. They groaned, struggled, and with a powerful shove from Quinn, came apart again. Zayd spun the knife in his hand, daring Quinn to make a move of his own. Zayd was not a classically trained fighter, but he was more than adequate. And Quinn was still weak.

Zayd's men stood by with uncertain expressions, watching. They were sure their leader wanted to take credit for this kill, and they feared his wrath. Zayd feinted at Quinn's face again, and as Quinn turned to parry the knife, Zayd's unarmed left fist came down on his back, outraging the healing exit wound from the bullet. Excruciating pain from the injured area brought a howl to Quinn's lips. He turned his head, and out of the corner of his eye, saw Carrie standing about 20 feet from the fray, much nearer than he'd like. And not walking away, either. _Oh, fuck me,_ he thought.

Though the pain was horrible, he retained his internal composure, and through the agony took a he stumbling step, intending that Zayd think he was about to fall. Lips peeled in a venomous grin, Zayd moved in close for the slaughter, thinking his victim was about to crumple. But Quinn used the opportunity to allow the terrorist to close the distance. As Zayd came in for the kill, Quinn used the heel of his hand to strike upward with all the force he could muster. He winced as he felt the jihadi leader's trachea and voicebox collapse with a nearly audible crunch. _That does it,_ he thought _, and I hope I killed him with one blow or Carrie will be in a firefight with all of them._

Quinn backed off and staggered to his knees. He heard Zayd attempt to inhale, making a hideous gasp and gurgle. One more step, and the jihadi leader folded and fell to the ground, face first, blood trickling from his nose and mouth and running between the cobbles. There was no question that he was out of action, and death would come soon. Peter finally took a breath and tried to stand. He nearly vomited from the effort, and stayed down on his knees. He exhaled noisily, placing a hand to his lower back – of course, he was bleeding again. His shoulder was bleeding too, where Zayd had slashed him. He was facing away from Carrie, his back to the end of the street where the car was parked. She hadn't made a sound – not yet. Maybe she was gone, down to the car.

Zayd's lieutenant came forward, and started giving orders. _No doubt, it was just what he was hoping for,_ Quinn thought.

"Get that body out of here," he ordered. The men gaped him, and at Zayd's crumpled form. Nobody moved. The lieutenant impatiently tried again. "Remove the remains of our martyred brother," he said, irritated. One of them men started forward, uncertainly. "Help him, Qasim," the lieutenant urged. Another guy came out of the crowd, and reached down for Zayd's corpse.

Quinn staggered to a stand. Rocked back and forth, testing his equilibrium. Not too bad, he thought. The initial pain of the injuries had worn off a bit, and he found that he could balance on his feet. He backed up a step or two. He hoped Carrie had made it to the car. Everyone should have been focused on the fighting and the death, and not notice if a woman faded away down the sidewalk.

Zayd's lieutenant took a step or two towards Quinn, as did two more of the men. "You must stay another night," he said. Quinn backed up another step. What were they going to do, compel him to stay? Tie him to a bed? He couldn't fight them all. He had used up all his limited strength with Zayd.

"No," Quinn said, "I need to go." He backed up two more steps, wincing. The punch in his bullet wound still hurt, he was grimacing, and he was wishing he could squat down for a moment and catch his breath. But he needed to get the hell out of dodge.

"No, no," said the lieutenant, in a voice that suggested he'd induce him to remain, if he didn't come voluntarily. "Stay. You'll be safe now," he said, in an oily, reassuring voice.

From behind Quinn came a sharp click, the sound of a clip being loaded and a round being locked in.

"The fuck he will," Carrie said. "Quinn, get behind me, go."

The group looked up, and Quinn turned to see Carrie had pulled off the burqa, and was standing with her Beretta pointing right at the lieutenant's head. As they stared, Quinn walked painfully away from the group, heading in the direction she had indicated. He would give her a piece of his mind later, he thought, for endangering herself. He could have managed this alone! But he knew he needed to use the opportunity she created.

He was moving as fast as he could, an awkward hop-shuffle that favored his injured side. He was making good time, but he still felt like he was crawling. "Come on, come on," he muttered out of the side of his mouth as he passed Carrie's position. She started backing up to stay even with him, but she kept the weapon trained on her target.

"Just let him go," she said to the group's new leader, who stood with his eyes wide in shock. Quinn took peeks back over his shoulder, and half expected someone to pull a gun on them, but nobody moved. "Just let him go." Quinn shuffled on, making progress and cursing. Carrie backed alongside him, keeping the muzzle of the gun directed at the mob leader, until they were halfway down the block. At that point, Quinn picked up the pace to a jog.

"Agh. _Fuck_. You didn't have to do that," he gasped.

"Shut up and run," Carrie said, checking behind her constantly, the two bags of belongings swinging as she kept pace next to him. She checked around the corner one last time, to see if any of the men had followed, pulled a weapon, or gotten into a car. As far as she could see, they were all still standing there, stunned, or squatting by Zayd's body on the ground.

They reached Carrie's car, which she had left unlocked. She helped Quinn into the passenger side, then ran to the driver's side, and got in. She put the weapon into Quinn's hands, and throwing the bags of gear into the back seat, started the engine and squealed out. Peter turned back, and looked out the rear of the car. He watched as they left the neighborhood, and turned onto a wide avenue of shops. He had readied himself to fire out the window, but as far as he could see, they weren't being followed.

After they'd made a few blocks, Carrie slowed the car to the speed limit. They needed to be careful, inconspicuous. A few minutes passed before they both cooled out sufficiently to talk. It seemed like they had made their escape.

"You ok?" she asked. Reaching over, she put a hand on Quinn's knee.

"Yeah," he said. "Shoulder's cut. And I don't know what my back looks like, but I'm bleeding."

"I'll take a look when we get back to the hideout," she said, watching behind them in the rearview mirror. "We'll go around for a bit, make some turns, make sure to lose any tails." Hand on his injury, twisted to the side in the seat, Quinn eyed Carrie as she drove.

"Jesus Christ, you scared me. You never listen, do you?"

Carrie's mouth twisted in a downturned smile. She squeezed his knee tightly.

"No, I don't," she admitted.

He dropped his head back onto the headrest and closed his eyes. Her hand was still warm on his knee. He let out a huge sigh.

 _Thank God_ , he thought.


	16. Chapter 16

Carrie had done a bit of driving around, to make sure that she and Quinn were not being followed. Neither of them could detect a tail. The terrorists had not reacted fast, and were not that subtle. They had been so blown away by Zayd's death, her sudden appearance and Quinn's rapid departure, that nobody twitched a muscle to chase them down the block, or pull a weapon. Whatever value Quinn might have had to them, and whatever reason they had for bringing him back inside, it wasn't worth the effort of following him. For that, Carrie was grateful.

With relief, they pulled into the block where Quinn's hideout was located. Carrie found long-term street parking half a block away, and they both walked quietly to the door of the hideout, carefully approaching to see if it had been compromised.

Quinn, still limping, insisted on entering first. Carrie followed, wary, but without a weapon drawn. They both looked around and after a moment it seemed clear that the place was deserted. Still theirs, then. Carrie dropped the bags, turned on a few lights, and cranked the space heater. Quinn locked the deadbolt behind them, and sank down onto the bed, exhausted. She washed her hands at the sink in the corner, and called back over her shoulder.

"Nope, sit back up. Let me look at you," she ordered.

Quinn sighed and sat up, unbuttoning his shirt. He removed it from his shoulder, his mouth turned down in a moue of distaste and pain as he unstuck the dried blood from the cut on his shoulder. Carrie walked over, bringing with her the med kit Quinn had left in his hideout, as well as the extra supplies Hussein had sent with them. She helped Quinn peel his shirt the rest of the way off, dropping it on the floor. Another day, another item of his wardrobe lost to blood and combat injuries.

Quinn opened a bottle of morphine with his teeth, and poured a vial down the hatch. He'd had enough needles. Carrie sat down beside him to inspect his injuries.

"I hope we don't have to test my suturing skills," Carrie said, probing the cut. "That field medicine course was a long time ago."

"Nah," Quinn said indifferently. But then, this was a guy who was gutshot, and just dismissed it. She ignored him, and started to clean it, testing gingerly to see how deep it went. There was a four inch long cut in his deltoid which definitely went more than skin deep. But it wasn't as bad as she'd thought, and wouldn't require stitches. Carrie cleaned it out, and sprayed antibiotic on it.

"Two butterfly clips ought to do it," she said, affixing them, and covered the whole thing with gauze. "Now let me see your back."

"It's ok," Quinn said.

 _Sure it is_ , Carrie thought, rolling her eyes. She cleaned up that area, too. She looked closely at the dissolving stitches last fixed up by Hussein, hoping she wouldn't have to replace them.

He studied her face in the lamplight, as she looked down at his injury. "So, you going to explain to me why you exposed yourself? I didn't want them to see you at all," Quinn grumbled.

"I was ready to plug Zayd from the moment he pulled his knife. I was pretty sure you could take him, but I would have fired sooner, if I had to. I stayed under cover as long as I could stand, Quinn. And after the fight…" Quinn hissed an indrawn breath as Carrie's examination hit a tender spot. "I thought they were going to force you back inside."

"They were," Quinn said.

"Do I really need to explain?" Carrie asked. They made eye contact, and Quinn shook his head. He'd have done the same, but he hated that she'd endangered herself for him. Anything could have gone wrong.

She finished her inspection of his exit wound.

"You know, I don't think they're broken. You _were_ bleeding, but I don't see anything that requires re-suturing. At least, to my unpracticed eye," she said, covering the area with spray antibiotic. She bandaged that wound as well. Digging in the cabinets where she'd cleaned up earlier that week, she found a sheet, another pillow, and a couple blankets. She had Quinn stand, and they arranged the bed to create some comfort.

Carrie found a black t-shirt, and threw that at Quinn, too. He caught it and pulled it on. "There," she said, as he lay down again.

"Now what?" Quinn asked, as Carrie set the computer up at the table along the wall.

"Now you sleep," she said. "I'm going to keep looking through these."

Quinn watched her, as she sat, her back turned to him.

" _You_ should sleep," he said, after a minute.

"I'm good for a few more hours."

"Have you been taking your meds?" Quinn asked, trying to get a rise out of her. He succeeded.

"Yes, I have, there were spares in my fallback box, and what business is it of yours?" She turned on the stool to face him, glaring.

Quinn stood up again, slowly. He walked to the stool where Carrie was sitting. Taking both her hands, he pulled her to a stand. She didn't resist, just sighed out a deep breath, irritated. Leading her to the narrow bed, he turned her and backed her up, so that she had to sit on the edge. He walked back and turned the tensor lamp off and shut the computer. His voice came out of the gloom, emanating from a dark shadow with broad shoulders.

"It is my business."

She gave in, lying down on the bed, kicking off her shoes. It really had been a bastard of a day. She just felt so wound up, she was sure she wouldn't sleep.

Quinn walked back around the bed, and lay behind her. He lay down so his cut side was facing up, more comfortable. He pulled the blanket over both of them. Carrie scooched back until her back was pressing gently into Quinn's belly. She had to admit, it felt good to be lying down, good to be with him. His bulk was warm and reassuring. And this was much safer than a terrorists den. Even when they'd been lodged in the haven of Hussein's quarters, she'd never really her guard down.

"There's too much to read in one night. You keep yourself stable by getting some decent sleep. That's how you solve problems, not by snorting pills and slugging vodka," he said, carefully putting his sore arm around her, outside the covers.

"Fuck," Carrie said, remembering the cabin, and becoming mildly agitated. "You saw all that?"

"I saw enough," he said briefly. "And I've seen you at your best. I know what you can do. Sleep," he finished. With that, he pulled her closer and declared the discussion over by going to sleep himself.

* * *

She guessed he was right. He had as much right to be pissed if she didn't take care of herself, as she did when he abused his body. It went both ways. Who knew what they'd have to go through before this was over? Quinn had saved her life in more than one way, although her normal life in Berlin was out of reach, there were things she could get back. First, to get the target off her back. Then, repair her reputation. And, then get back with Franny. After that, who knew? She pressed back into Peter's warmth.

Who knew, indeed. There were worse ways to spend nights than curled up against Quinn. A one-man bed furnace, he was. He didn't snore, either. Carrie smiled with her eyes closed, and dozed off.

Most of the night passed in silence, the first truly restful sleep since she had found Quinn. He moved a few times, seemingly only to get closer. At dawn, Carrie almost startled awake, having slept deeply enough to become disoriented and have forgotten where she was. Quinn woke just enough to turn over and turn on his back. She wiggled close enough to put her head on his shoulder and cover them both up warmly again. No fever, thank God.

She felt his arm tighten around her, pulling her closer in the chill of the converted garage. Gray dawn light was filtering in through the windows. Quinn chin dug into the top of her head, at first. Then, he seemed to be breathing in the smell of her hair. God, it was good to have him so close, after so much worry. So many thoughts came into her mind, so many things she could say. But it was so early, and he was mostly asleep. So was she, for that matter. There were questions to ask. But they'd have to wait.

* * *

They slept until mid-morning. She woke first, sat up, and went to find what passed for a bathroom in Quinn's hideout. She used it, and looked in the mirror. _Agh_ , she thought, combing her hair with her fingers. _I'm overdue for maintenance_. She washed her hands and when she emerged, she found Quinn sitting up, rubbing his lower back.

Carrie walked straight to him, and put her hand on his forehead. He felt cool. The look he gave her as she removed her hand was also decidedly neutral. Was she overstepping her bounds, or something? He was not feverish, which was a relief. As with so many other things, she let the cool look go, without inquiring. So many years together, and she still had a hard time reading his face. She walked to the computer and turned it on, then started to rummage around in his belongings.

"What you need?" Quinn asked.

"Got any coffee?"

"Instant," he said. It figured.

"I'll drink anything," she said, honestly.

Quinn set about making cups and digging for something else to offer her. "Nothing but sweetened condensed milk. And some canned beans."

Carrie wrinkled her nose. "I'm not _that_ hungry," she said.

He stood. "I'll bring something back after I meet with Dar," he said.

"You're going out, huh?" Carrie asked.

"Have to let him know about the jihadis in Hussein's building. He or some of Saul's people will need to start real surveillance," he said.

Carrie looked down, and studied the screen, and pretended not to be invested in the answer when she asked, "You coming back soon?"

"Yeah," Quinn said. "Why, you worried?" He readied himself to leave, packing on the shoulder holster, and tucking in his weapon. He pulled a hoodie over the whole thing.

She looked up at him, peeved. "Of course I'm worried. Just like you were, every time _I_ went out."

"It's hard to wait," he agreed, not trying to stir her up, but inadvertently doing so. He opened the door a crack, hoping to escape.

"No shit, it's hard to wait," she said testily. "I never know if it's going to be two hours or two years until I see you again," she finished, wanting to say more, make it mean more.

"I'll be back later," he said vaguely. "You really think I'd disappear now?"

Carrie got up from the stool, walked over to Quinn where he was standing with his hand on the door. She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back, and banged the door shut.

"Yeah, I do think so. I think it might feel safer out there with the jidahis and with Dar than it does here with me."

She put her hand on his chest, and pushed him backwards. He was cornered. He leaned until his back was pressed into the wall, his hands coming up to capture her waist in the same movement. She made no attempt to pull away, but fixed him there with her eyes, and put her hands on his as they clasped her waist.

"Why is that, Quinn?" she demanded. "Two years ago, you just _left_. You couldn't wait even two _days_ for me to get back from Missouri. I was coming back to find you. To tell you _yes_. That even if we fucked it up, it'd be worth a try."

He stood dumbstruck at her admission. Again with the minefield. What could he say that would make it right? She had him pegged.

"I was afraid you'd say no," he said finally. She backed off a step, letting him step away from the wall.

"You should have waited to see," Carrie said, turning away. He leaned on the door again. "It wasn't fair."

The last she said so quietly, almost to herself, but he could hear the anguish. His heart twisted with shame. The pain these choices had caused them both was impossible to calculate. He owed her an apology, but had no idea where to start.

"I _am_ coming back," he said, hoping he sounded as sincere as he felt. "I won't be gone long."

Carrie sat back down at the computer, resigned. "OK, Quinn."

He opened the door again, then shut it immediately, because she was speaking again.

"All those years we worked together. At Langley, In Islamabad, in the field on jobs, and you never touched me, except in passing. You must have felt _something_. So why not?"

She was shaking her head. He had absolutely no reply for that. He was choking on the possible answers, nearly boiling over with his response. First there had been Brody. But even so, it had taken all of his strength not to touch her, hold her, make a pass at her. He was a giant with feelings, but when it came to words, he fell short. For him, actions had to do. Protecting her, supporting her. Even shooting her once, so no other asshole would try and miss. It had been like shooting himself.

But how to put all that into words? He'd have to answer her later, if at all.

"I have to go," he said. "I'll get us some food."

She pushed her money clip of Euros towards him. "Go, go. By all means," she said.

He found dark shades in a drawer, put his hoodie up. Standing in the crack of the open doorway, Quinn looked back at her.

"Carrie," he said, inscrutable behind the dark glasses. She didn't answer, but she looked up. If she was hoping for a significant statement, she'd be disappointed. But he wanted to see her eyes.

"Three hours, tops," he said.

Then, his heart in his mouth, he was gone.

* * *

An hour later, Carrie was startled from her study of the documents. Someone was hammering on the hideout door. That was unsubtle of Quinn, she thought. Not like him.

Through the hideout's peephole, she determined why the hammering was so obvious and intense.

"Jonas," Carrie gulped. She opened the door wide.


	17. Chapter 17

Quinn stalked down the Bergstraße, his head swimming with Carrie's admission. It had been even more stunning than her testament the other night at the doctor's apartment, that she had thought of him - all the time - for two years. He believed that, he believed her intensity. And he believed this new information, too – that she had been coming back to D.C., hurrying to catch him before he shoved off. He wondered how long between the time he deactivated his civilian cell phone, and when she tried to call. Three hours? One? He thought back on that day, on his short term lease in the swank apartment. He'd picked out something decent, just hoping she'd come back home with him. He had asked for a furnished place with relatively new items, and looked it over on the web before he contracted with the leasing agent. Consciously or otherwise, he chose furnishings that echoed Carrie's taste from her old condo outside Langley. He wanted her to like it, to like him.

He had thought he'd been patient. He had opened himself up to rejection in a meaningful way for the first time in a long time. And he'd really thought she'd take the bait, was so hopeful that she'd want to get out, and get out with him. Find a life outside the agency, whatever that looked like. Together, he thought they could do it.

But all through that long day and afternoon, his doubt had grown. She hadn't called or contacted him at all. He finally called Maggie, and asked where Carrie had gone. Maggie had been holding Franny, who was squeaking in the background, so she really didn't have time to converse.

"Where?" Quinn had inquired. He had no idea why she'd go to Missouri. He thought he might have misheard.

"Missouri. To see our Mom," Maggie had grumbled.

"Oh," Quinn said. "I was hoping to talk to Carrie." The understatement of the century.

"Yeah, well, you know her. She gets fixated on things. She left Franny with me, and so, you know. Poof."

"Thanks," he said.

 _Poof_. It didn't bode well, he thought. Not well at all.

That afternoon, he'd connected with her. She had been so distracted, so not-herself. She'd said they'd talk in a few days. He was sure, absolutely sure, that the reason she was putting him off was because it was bad news. That she wanted to say, "Thanks, but no thanks." And then, he thought, she'd say, "I hope we can still be friends." His insides twisted, and he shuddered. He couldn't stomach that. Someone like him, who has been vulnerable to no one, becomes vulnerable only at great cost. The door in his mind, so briefly open to light and happiness, had slammed shut. He'd turned off the phone, bailed on the lease, and called Dar. Within nine hours he'd been on a plane to Syria.

But that had been a mistake. He knew that now. The distraction in her voice, something he'd heard as disinterest, was something else altogether. Why hadn't he waited? Why hadn't he called again? Or just flown out and found her? Driven her back home? He was a covert agent, and she wasn't hiding, so she wouldn't have been hard to find. He could have been leaning on the doorjamb of her hotel room with an overnight bag and a bottle of wine in six hours. The worst she could have done was say, "No" in person, and share the wine. She'd have done that, at least. Then he'd have known for sure. But it would likely have been a completely different conversation, a different event. Dinner together, lingering kisses, then a long weekend in the hotel room where he'd show her exactly how he felt, what he wanted. He now understood why people were always talking about The Road Not Taken.

 _Fuck_ , he thought. _She was afraid that she'd fuck things up. But it was me. It was me._

He had obtained a fresh burner phone and messaged Dar with their contact code the moment he'd left the hideout. He promised Carrie three hours, and he wanted to keep his promise. He had to make this fast.

Dar had messaged back immediately, saying he was right here in town. A phonecall would have been good enough, for what Quinn needed to report. But it would be good to speak in person, too. Dar's fearsome reputation was not unlike Peter's, but for what it was worth, Quinn felt that Adal was trustworthy. He'd heard some funny things over the years, things about Haqqani. But regarding basic response to burning human issues, Dar was reliable. He wouldn't screw it up.

Quinn's hoodie was up, and shades on, he paced up and down the Bergstraße four times slowly while he waited for Dar. He was surprised and pleased to find his energy returning. His pain level was way down, too. He must be healing. Finally, around the corner, bald head shining like a light bulb, Dar Adal came with a couple of brown paper bags under his arm. He seemed genuine pleased to see Quinn, showing his teeth - what passed for Dar's smile.

"Peter!" he called. "Imagine my surprise, learning you were here in Berlin."

"I assumed you knew," Quinn said honestly. It was always safe to assume Dar knew his whereabouts, along with every other high-level operative in his group.

"I didn't," he said. "Right off, I have to ask you. Did Saul ever speak to you about Otto Düring, mention the Foundation?"

"Never."

"What about the Israelis?" Dar tried. "Some kind of joint operation he was running with them?" It was clear that Carrie was right, Dar was suspicious of Saul, and was no doubt all over Saul asking questions. If Quinn could have contributed anything useful without harming Carrie's anonymity, he would have. But he knew nothing.

Quinn shook his head. "No. Listen, could we sit?" All that hoofing it up and down the street had finally taken its toll. He was getting better, but still not feeling tip-top.

"Yeah," Adal said, handing him one of the paper bags. "I brought you a sandwich." Amusingly, Dar never showed up without food. Quinn guessed he knew that his operatives weren't the type of people to put nutrition first.

"Your text said you caught a break?"

"Yeah, I did," Quinn said, taking a bite. "Got lucky, I guess."

"How so?"

"I fell in with some of the jihadis released the other night from Plötzensee Prison," Quinn said. Dar raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah?"

"Long story," Quinn said. "Bottom line, they're planning something big. Probably right here, in Berlin. I planted a device close enough to give a team some decent intel," he said, handing Dar the coordinates and the frequency of the transmitter. "It's a mediocre bug, but I'd say you have a week or two before it becomes inoperable."

"Impressive, Peter."

"I spent a lot of time observing them, and I saw them readying a truck. It looked like they were going to move out on some kind of mission in the next day or three, but I couldn't be sure," Quinn said.

"I can get a team into place quickly," Dar said. "But they might move out before I can deploy someone."

"Get me a couple of GPS devices, and I'll stealth in, plant them on the truck," Quinn volunteered without thinking.

"You think they're sophisticated enough to have sniffers? Screen for this kind of thing?"

"I don't think so," Quinn said. It wasn't really possible to say, though.

"You said this place was an apartment building?"

"Yeah," Quinn said.

"Come with me, down to the BND satellite station. Stefan will loan us some GPS trackers. Think you can make a pass back through there soon enough? It's one thing to collect enough evidence to have the BND move on them in this apartment, another thing entirely to be able to track them to some larger center of activity," Dar said, standing. They started to walk towards the station.

Quinn finished his sandwich and banked the balled-up paper bag off the side of a trash can. "The tracker could end up in Syria, or anywhere," Quinn said.

"Fine," Adal said. "Then we'll know. If they're as bad as you say, and they head into some Godforsaken desert, they might meet an untimely demise," he said.

Quinn nodded and pulled up his hood. "One thing. The guy in the apartment upstairs. He's a good guy. No collateratal damage," he stated.

"Done," Dar said, head down, already in operations mode. Quinn wanted to hurry and get back to the hideout, so he said no more.

* * *

"You went after him," Jonas said seriously. It wasn't an accusation, exactly. But almost.

"Well, what did you expect?" Carrie said. "You scolded me for not being upset that he'd disappeared. I told you to give me a minute to take it in. You stormed off, and then after a minute, I got upset."

"And did you find him?" Jonas said. His eyes were sad, and she had to say at least he sounded concerned about Quinn as a fellow human being. The whole situation was beyond his comprehension, but at least he understood a man's life was at stake. Carrie could see by his demeanor that he was assuming she'd found him dead, or not at all.

"As a matter of fact, I did find him, very much alive. We were lucky. He happened into the care of an off-the-books doctor, who kept him alive, and nursed him back to health. He was very generous," she said.

When Carrie said "alive," Jonas's eyes lit up, and not in a pleasant way. He didn't want Quinn to die, but he didn't want him back around here, either, she could tell.

"You disappeared yourself, for a few days. I was worried," Jonas said. "Otto called, said he hadn't heard from you."

Carrie nodded. "I owe him a call," she said. "But you can tell him I'm fine."

"You're _fine_? Sitting _here_ , in this dirty garage? What kind of crazy talk is this," Jonas said. He gestured around like she was sitting in the ninth circle of the inferno. He was going to try to appeal to his version of reason, again, and suggest all kinds of things that work when someone was in conventional trouble. But they wouldn't work for Carrie, or for Quinn. How did he not get that? "Come home, Carrie. Let me talk to the police."

"Jonas, I am right where I need to be, in order to get the information I need. Someone or some organization is trying to kill me. And Quinn. If we go to the police, I'm just revealing to the real perpetrator that I'm still alive, putting a target on my back. I can't do it," she said.

"And you have to stay here? With him? Where is he, anyway? Disappeared again?"

Carrie frowned, pissed off that he was naming her worst actual fear – that Quinn would just flake out and vanish. "He's out," she declared crossly. "He'll be back."

Jonas came a step or two closer to her. "Just what is it between you and this guy, Carrie? He acts like he would die for you. He almost did. Why is that?" He stood close enough to touch her, kissing distance. But he bristled with off-putting jealousy.

Carrie sighed. "We go way back," she attempted. "You wouldn't understand."

"You're right, I wouldn't," he said stiffly.

A discreet double tap on the door. Carrie and Jonas looked at each other. Who else could it be? Carrie went to the door and twisted the lock, and Quinn stepped inside, pushing back his hood and removing his shades.

He looked from Carrie to Jonas, sizing up the situation. He set a small cardboard box and a plastic bag of groceries on the table next to the door, then closed the door and twisted the deadbolt.

"Hi," Quinn said, testing the water.

Jonas, too well-bred to be rude, returned the greeting, sulkily. "Are you feeling better?" he said after a moment.

"Yeah," Quinn said. "And thanks. Thanks for everything you did for me."

Jonas found himself unable to respond, he simply nodded. Quinn nodded back at him, and then looked at Carrie.

"I'm going to take a shower," he said. He walked off to the small add-on bathroom. Shower? Carrie hadn't even noticed one, and it was a small bathroom. But she hadn't really been looking. They heard the water go on, which gave the illusion of auditory privacy. But Carrie had the feeling that Quinn was still listening. She kind of hoped he was.

"Listen, Jonas," she said to the glowering lawyer. "The last week has been a real eye-opener."

"Yes, you can say that again," Jonas said. Carrie walked to the stool at Quinn's workbench, and perched on the edge.

"It's given me real insight into who I am, and who you are. And I don't want you to think otherwise – I really, really care for you and I wish you only the best," she said. Jonas stood silently, waiting for the axe to drop. "But it's clear to me that you only love the parts of me that you understand. And that's only a small part."

Jonas shook his head. "I should have known," he said.

"Should have known what?"

"Your files, your background. Where you came from, what you did. You can never outrun it, you can never be… normal."

"Maybe not, Jonas. But I can be myself. And with any luck, I can get the heat off, and get my daughter back. Quinn understands that. He can help me with that. He wants to."

"And I can't," Jonas said. "Asked and answered. Well, listen, Carrie. I'm glad I visited. I'm glad you told me. I think I understand now," he said. He didn't understand anything, she thought. But at this point, whatever he thought suited her, if he only got moving.

"Please, keep our location secret," Carrie said, her eyes sad. She was almost begging. "And when I fix the situation, I'll be around. To get my stuff."

He nodded, and moved towards the door, looking once at the ceilingless bathroom cubby where a cloud of steam was rising. He nodded again, towards the bathroom door.

"Will he take care of you?" Jonas asked. He sounded tender and sad. It almost made her cry.

"Yeah," Carrie replied. "He will."

"OK, then," Jonas said. Excusing himself, polite to the end, Jonas let himself out of the hideout, and waited only for a moment outside the door before turning and walking off. He didn't look back. Carrie shut the deadbolt, turned, and leaned her back against the door, blowing out an enormous breath, her eyes closed.

The shower went off. Quinn walked out of the bathroom, still wet, wearing a towel around his waist.

"He take off?" Quinn asked. He was studying her face. Her guardian in so many ways, he was calculating her mood, seeing how upset she was.

"Yeah," Carrie tried to say lightly.

"He coming back?" Quinn asked again. His torso was slick with water. It looked oiled, and between that and the weight loss he'd suffered while ill, he looked really cut. The ugliness of the bullet wound was fading a bit, and the slash on his shoulder was not conspicuous. Frankly, he looked smoking hot. A wave of desire surged over Carrie, crashing down between her legs and becoming concentrated there. It was distracting.

"No, I don't think so," she said. She was supposed to be thinking about Jonas, she thought. But all she could think about was what Quinn was hiding behind that towel.

"Good," he said. He went to the groceries, and unpacked a white waxed-paper bag. "I went to a bakery, but I only got two."

He opened it, and offered Carrie a cherry Danish. Biting into it, looking over at Quinn munching on his, nearly in the altogether, it was just too much. When he smiled at her, she found herself smiling back.


	18. Chapter 18

"Anything?" Quinn said. He was rummaging in a cabinet, looking for something to wear, and came back out with a pair of black jeans. Carrie observed him out of the corner of her eye, as he dropped the towel and pulled them on, commando. That didn't help her composure.

"No," Carrie said, flipping through page after page of classified material. "I don't know even know what I'm looking for."

"Dar Adal mentioned something about Saul possibly having a deal with the Israelis," Quinn offered.

"Really? I don't know, Saul has known some of the Israeli team forever. They're personal friends. If they're looking at someone like Etai Luskin, it's going to be hard to characterize it as a special deal."

"Well, he asked me if I knew anything," Quinn said.

"And what did you say?"

Quinn shrugged. "Nothing. He also asked about Otto Düring. Who I know even less about."

"I owe him a call," Carrie said. "Or maybe a visit. I think he would give us a place to stay."

"Without having met the guy or seen the place," Quinn cautioned, "I'd recommend being very fucking careful who you trust."

Carrie was still, just thinking. Hard to imagine Otto as one of the bad guys. Hadn't he just pledged millions of Euros to Syrian refugee camps? He'd never given her a reason for suspicion of any kind. Shaking her head, she gestured at the computer screen.

"These documents, they're all over the place. It's like a dump bin of anything that was ever classified. Chechnya, Iraq, Sudan. Ops in the US, Ops in Pakistan. They go back to 2002. There's no one specific operation, event, or person in common, at least not that I've seen in the first couple hundred files."

"Well, keep looking," Quinn advised. He had walked back over to the table where she was working, still shirtless. "And just so you know, I need to step out for a while this evening."

Carrie frowned up at him. "For?"

He opened the cardboard box, and pulled out two new-in-the-plastic GPS units, ready to track the location of anything, or anyone. "I'm going to get these initialized. Then I'm heading back to Hussein's apartment block," he said.

"Oh, Quinn," Carrie moaned, every kind of frustration apparent in her voice.

He continued, downplaying her concern. "Remember that box truck parked out in front of Hussein's building? At first I thought it was a work truck for someone who lived there. But it was parked there for days, and it was still there when we left. At one point, I saw Zayd and his second in command going into and out of the rear compartment. It's theirs, and considering their upcoming plans, I highly doubt that it's filled with dirty laundry. We should track it."

"So you're going to go _back_? Quinn, that's really dangerous. You can be sure the jihadis are on their guard now," she said. Her hands were turning cold. She rubbed them together.

"It's not a big deal," Quinn said. In his mind, it probably wasn't. Anxiety-provoking, dangerous jobs were his daily bread. Why would planting a couple of GPS units worry him, even outside a terror cell where he had recently been in a life-or-death knife fight?

"Let someone else do it," Carrie urged. "You turned the information into Dar Adal, right? He's got to have a team who can observe them."

"Either Dar or the BND will do that, yes. But I know the lay of the land, I know exactly where to place these. They could be leaving tonight, Carrie. Who knows where they're going? What they want to do?" Quinn put the units on the counter, and leaned forward on folded arms.

"I _will_ be ok," he promised, cocking his head to one side. Acting like he knew something she didn't.

Carrie looked away.

"Hey," Quinn said. "I'm sorry. About going back to Zayd's crib. And about, you know, what happened. Jonas seemed like a nice guy."

"He was," Carrie said bleakly. Her lower lip quivered.

 _I made it worse. Shit. Why did I even mention Jonas?_ Quinn felt like a fool, powerless in the face of her despair. He longed to take her in his arms, rub her back, tell her it would be alright. But when they woke up in the daylight, somehow it was all business. Like being back at Langley. To some degree, they fell into their old roles. She tried to give orders, and he bridled at them. She planned schemes, and he pointed out their weaknesses. They snapped at each other like an old married couple. But after all these years of discretion, he wanted to touch her, to give her comfort. He tried to pick the words that would get through. But how could he? No matter how sincere, his feelings got mangled on the way out of his mouth.

He shuffled around the hideout, putting various items away, engaging in tidying, busywork. Just staying near her. Finally, he had to speak, and fell back on pragmatism.

"Hey," he suggested, after some quiet time elapsed. "You should take a break. Take a shower."

"I didn't even know you had a shower in this building," Carrie said.

"I didn't. But I diverted a hot water pipe from the neighboring garage. Patched on some PVC, hooked up a shower head, and there's a drain in the floor over there. It does the job."

"Actually, that sounds really, really good," she said, standing and abandoning her lukewarm instant coffee.

"Be careful adjusting the temperature. It's a little touchy," he cautioned. He gazed at her uneasily as she went off and half-closed the door, pulling the thin fabric shut around what passed for a shower cubicle in the bathroom.

Carrie had been so glad to get up and leave. She held it together until she got into the bathroom, but her face started to crumple as soon as she got inside. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her state of mind had been going downhill fast ever since Jonas left, and Quinn's well-meaning ham-handed apologies had not helped. But the truth was, she'd be ready to cry, even if she was alone.

Who was she kidding? She _was_ alone. She always would be. The internal put-downs went on repeating in her brain as she undressed and tried to look at everything objectively.

On one hand, she was mourning the death of her relationship with Jonas. It had been pleasant, inoffensive. He was safe. She had been comfortable every day. But in many ways she'd felt she'd stagnated with him. He didn't challenge her, at least, not the side of herself she showed him. But no matter what the reason, Carrie was well and truly single again, and she felt like a failure.

Then, there was Quinn. Just being around him was making her crazy right now. In the night, he'd been affectionate. She'd never felt so close to anyone. He'd even managed to say a few words that indicated he knew how _she_ felt. That was more than she'd ever gotten out of him before, but the way things were, it didn't feel like enough. Did he care for her, or not? If he did, why was he holding back, especially now, when she was so in need? It didn't help that the physical attraction between them, long suppressed, had blossomed into a constant ache. He fit together with her in a way that Jonas never had, and never could. They were like broken puzzle pieces that could only fit each other.

These were sensitive issues, but all by themselves, they'd be manageable. The real problem was that in this unbalanced state, she'd have to function. Think clearly, perform deductive reasoning tasks. Find and figure out what the fuck was going on _. No pressure, it's only your life at stake._ Carrie wasn't usually subject to fear, but she was as susceptible to stress as anyone else. Add a bruised up heart – maybe not broken, but definitely hurt – and you had a bad situation. She was sorry about Jonas, unsure about Quinn, and she missed Franny so very much. She knew it wasn't true, but she felt like a failure at everything important. Standing under the hot stream, feeling lost, broken, like her whole private life had been a miscarriage, she gave up on holding it in, and let the tears flow.

Quinn sat down on a stool, and sipped his coffee. Tried not to think of what she looked like, getting undressed in there. He also tried not to peek through the crack in the curtains from where he was sitting. But like before, when she had been changing into the scrubs, she was irresistible. The angle wasn't great and he didn't see much, but what he did see set his thoughts alight, and he found himself ruminating about things he hadn't confronted in several years. Suddenly, those passionate notions and visceral fantasies from the past were front-of-mind. He could see her clothing hitting the floor, one piece at a time. Well, she had certainly kick-started his libido.

He knew Carrie's past had included plenty of sexual activity, but he wondered how much pleasure had been in it for her. With Brody, for instance. Quinn hated the guy in principle, but at least he knew she'd felt real pleasure with him. He had heard and seen it, from an observation post, and through wiretaps. The sounds he had overheard her making during one of their clandestine meetings had stayed with him, all these years. Then, there had been that kid in Pakistan two years ago, Ayaan. He doubted very much that the young man understood the finer points of pleasuring a woman. Poor kid, he barely knew which end was up. And after all his misery, he was assassinated on drone camera by his own uncle. No pleasure there. That was just another sad memory, another layer to the guilt complex that Carrie dealt with. Undoubtedly she'd had been other partners, before and after. And of course, there had been Jonas. Quinn selfishly enjoyed a moment of satisfaction that Jonas had been seen off.

Quinn only knew of these few guys for sure, but there had to be more. Carrie was gorgeous, probably had had many boyfriends. Maybe even one night stands, he thought. But what the fuck, so had he. Most of that was just a temporary band-aid. He knew that in spite of it, Carrie's life had been short on _real_ pleasure and happiness, and long on fear and deprivation - much like his own.

In the past, Quinn had utilized sex for relaxation, but had done so infrequently. His brief relationship with Julia – and subsequent absentee role as parent – had been an exception. He didn't make attachments. Astrid had been an enthusiastic bedmate over the years, but she knew better than to get emotionally involved. He'd never had to deal with any messy aftermath with her, for which he was grateful. But thinking back, he realized his desire for the company of women had declined to almost zero after he'd left Carrie in D.C., and gone off to Syria two years prior. It was like his body was in cold storage, chilled down to go with his machinelike, dark emotions. Do the job, remove the objective, turn in the data, and repeat. It certainly wasn't the best way to keep in touch with your gentle side.

He heard a sound from the shower. Carrie. It sounded like she was crying. _Fuck_. What could he do? Should he blunder in there and say something? What if what he said the wrong thing? He wanted, so badly, to touch her. But considering their dire situation, he thought, it wasn't really a good time to start something. But he couldn't just let her cry alone. He began gathering his nerve, and stood up.

As he walked towards the bathroom, he considered: there was _never_ going to be a good time. That hesitation is what brought them here, to this hideout, being hunted, as Carrie had pointed out. When Brody was front-and-center in her mind, that wasn't a good time. Then, she was searching for the evidence to exonerate him, and _that_ wasn't a good time either. After that, Quinn had reported to Carrie in Islamabad, been her shadow, her external conscience. He had been upset to be pulled back in, at least superficially. But subconsciously, he was glad to be there with her. In Pakistan, the work relationship was paramount, that was what she needed him for, he thought. Everything else went by the wayside. So he had deferred and delayed, and repressed his feelings, hadn't acknowledged them, even to himself.

Quinn sat staring hard at the concrete floor, listening to the quiet sobs from the shower.

 _Fuck it_ , Quinn thought, _there is never a good time_. They were both in terrible danger, and any day could be their last. He might never have another chance to say anything. He stopped outside the bathroom door.

"Carrie?" he called, tapping on the door gently. He gave it a push, and it swung open. He heard her sniffle, saw her bare feet below the curtain, standing in the spray.

"Yeah?" she called back, clearly still upset, but trying to sound upbeat. He could smell shampoo. The water splashed around her and pattered on the concrete. The sound was mesmerizing. Thick steam rose from behind the curtain, like a genie had just appeared there.

Carrie faced away. Her long hair was visible streaming down her back, standing out darkly on her pale skin. He could see her shoulders through the thin curtain. Casting his eyes lower, he could see almost everything, right down to the small of her back and her shapely bottom. The object of his desire was naked, and everything in the room was dripping wet. He had become hard, incredibly hard. His cock was trying to punch a hole in his jeans. He had no idea what to say.

He opened his mouth to say, "It'll be alright," or "Do you need anything?" but what came out was much more sincere, much more important.

"You asked why I never touched you," Quinn said, "During all those years we worked together."

There was a squeak as she twisted the knob, and he heard water go off. He grabbed the bath towel from its hook, and prepared to hand it to her. She turned and faced him, holding the curtain in front of her, for all the good it did, her lower body scantily covered by the thin fabric, the tops of her breasts emerging above, like a mermaid from seaweed.

Quinn held the towel open in front of himself, holding his arms wide. Instead of reaching out for it, Carrie dropped the curtain, and walked forward. She was full frontal now, but he was so absorbed with the mournful look in her eyes that he didn't look down. He wrapped the towel around Carrie's body, using the full length to completely enclose her chest, torso, and arms in the thick cloth. He waited for her to stop him, to grab the towel and shriek. But she didn't. She leaned in, her arms and breasts solid against his chest.

"Yes?" she asked. He folded one end of the towel over the other, bundling her, pulling her into his chest, immobilizing her in a tight embrace. She didn't object or struggle. In fact, as he finished cocooning her in the towel, she turned her head to the side and leaned her cheek on his bare chest.

"I didn't touch you because," Quinn said, swallowing, "because I knew that if I did, I wouldn't be able to stop myself. And we'd do it, and do it, and it would never be enough." He squeezed her tighter, so tightly he felt her chest expand as she breathed. He could hear his own voice, straining for self-control.

She leaned her head back, and looked up at Quinn. Her eyes were red, but she had stopped crying, and stood still.

"That's right," was all she said, hoarsely.

Without another word, he took a step backward from her and unwrapped her from the towel. Pulling it back, Quinn began to use it to dry Carrie's body. Rubbing, rough circles. Her shoulders, arms, breasts. She shut her eyes, heaved out a breath, more like a sob. He reached around, dried her hair, lifted her arms and rubbed the silky undersides, stroking the sides of her breasts with his fingers as his hands dropped back. The sudden closeness of him made her gasp. Years of nothing, and now this extraordinary intimacy.

Carrie shuddered, her eyelids fluttering. "Quinn," she moaned. He'd always wanted to hear her say his name like that, stammering, aroused, surrendering. He had a shred or two of restraint left, and used it to control his hands, rubbing her body dry slowly, erotically. His hands itched to touch her, explore her skin, but he calmed himself and continued his slow seduction. He was aware that he was inside an experience he'd anticipated and fantasized about so many times that he almost couldn't tell reality from fantasy. Well, whatever it turned out to be, it was fucking good.

She stood still, eyes half closed, like she was under a spell. He nudged her legs slightly apart and squatted down, and rubbed the rest of her body dry – buttocks, slender thighs, cleft. Not hurrying. He could hear her above him, breathing harder, faster. At the last, he used the towel to dry her pubic hair, pressing upward, then in circles. He heard her whimper. He was squatting close, his face inches from her mound. He could smell her, the sweet smell of arousal. He was so rock-hard inside the jeans that it hurt.

He stood again, and dropped the towel.

"I didn't start, because I didn't think I'd know how to stop. And I was right," he said tightly, his arms going around her shoulders, under the crook of her knees. His voice had dropped to a rough whisper. "I was right."

He picked her up, holding her off the ground. She was such a featherweight, no burden at all. She put her arms around him and held on, exploring his neck with her lips as Quinn carried her to the bed.


	19. Chapter 19

Quinn groaned as he lay Carrie down, finding that the strain of bending over reawakened the pain in his healing wounds. She looked up, concerned, as he lay down on the bed next to her.

"You ok?" she asked.

"Yeah," Quinn responded. It hurt, but it was worth it, he thought, leaning on one elbow. Reaching out, he cupped her breast with the other hand. His thumb circled her nipple slowly, feeling the texture change as it hardened. She shuddered as if she'd stepped out into a cold wind, and pressed closer to him.

 _Injured or not, there's no stopping now,_ she thought. Carrie reached down and stroked him through the jeans, thinking how many times she'd eyeballed him through his clothes, wondering how big he was, how long. Well, now she had her answer- the man had considerable length and girth. Lust for him, to see him naked, stirred in her belly. She continued to caress him through the denim.

"Stop," he said. He took her fondling hand by the wrist, and moved it away.

"Too much?" Carrie asked.

"I want this to last," he said, and leaned in. His mouth touched hers, and she exhaled. Closing her eyes, she gave in to all the suppressed feeling of the last two – no, four – years. She had kept the details of their last kiss fresh in her mind, and after so much time, it was surreal to be in his arms again. Nights and weeks had gone by, back in the US, when that night under the stars had been all she'd thought about. Touching him was good as she remembered. Quinn's mouth possessed hers, softly questioning, the perfect balance of passion and delicacy. He explored her lips with his, probing gently with his tongue, his hands drinking in her soft curves. Stroking lightly down her arms, over her belly and hip. He shifted his weight so that his body was above her, but hefted his bulk on his elbows. She lay back, accepting, welcoming.

Her hands came up and stroked his back, down low above his ass. She carefully touched his bullet wound, and smoothed her fingers over his broad back, up to the cut on his shoulder. So close to death, so many times, no doubt many more that she didn't even know about. What kind of miracle had it taken to bring them back together? Quinn had a knack for survival, but anybody's luck could run out. They had waited so long, and both felt the urgency, the need to make the most their time.

He relinquished her mouth, started working his lips down over the line of her jaw. Over the hollow of her throat, he paused, tasting her. "So good," she thought she heard him mutter. She had always wondered what he'd be like in bed. It was a talent, a gift, the way he used these same large hands that cleaned guns and fired bullets to kindle such pleasurable sensations. Her breath was coming quicker. She didn't know if she was so turned on because of the skillful way he used his hands and mouth, or because it was finally _Quinn,_ and she had wanted him so badly. Probably both. And he hadn't even touched her pussy yet, not since the startling moment when he'd dried her off in the bathroom.

She had almost come standing up, with him so close, inspecting her body. She never thought it would be his style to take it slow, and actually seduce her. She had pictured something much more slam-bang, resulting in scraped knees and bruised lips to go with violent climaxes. We'll get to that, too, she thought. Maybe against the wall. The image was furiously exciting.

His mouth was making its way down her belly, stopping at her navel, his tongue making slow circles around it. Quinn's hands slid down to cup her ass. He kissed downward, migrating his attention closer to her waiting lips, her passage already completely wet and ready. She tilted her hips up, straining for contact. At the top of her mound, breath surging from his nostrils, blowing directly into her pubic hair, he stopped. Sat back up.

"May I?" he asked raggedly, on his hands and knees.

"If you don't, I'll scream," she panted.

Quinn showed a half-smile. He made her wait a moment, as he stood up and shucked his jeans off. Finally nude, he was backlit by the sunlight filtering in through the hideout windows, throwing his chest and abdomen into sharp relief, his prick a long exclamation point. She gazed up, taking in his beauty.

"Oh, you'll scream," he said, self-assured, with the sassiness she'd come to expect from him. She didn't know whether to laugh, shriek or start crying with delight as he positioned his naked body over her legs, and parted her thighs gently.

His head back down, blowing into her hair, he parted her lips with his fingers, and took a deep breath. He could smell her excitement as he crouched over her, fully engaged in pleasuring. She felt like she was about to be mounted by an animal, by a tremendous beast. His mouth made contact with her nether lips, and locked on.

Carrie writhed in pleasure as Quinn's tongue darted out, traveling the length of her slit, tasting her. Working her to a frenzy took almost no time at all - she was halfway there when they hit the bed. On all fours, licking her and sucking her, Quinn positioned himself so that his prick didn't touch anything. Squirming about, she caught a glimpse of a bead of liquid at the end of it, and this detail itself almost sent her over the edge. _He must be so close_ , she thought deliriously. He kept up the pressure on her clit with his lips and tongue, circling and sucking. She gasped as he inserted a finger into her passage, then two, the welcome invasion bringing the experience to another ecstatic plateau. She strained towards release, clenching her thigh muscles, squeezing down on his hand.

"Oh, my _God_ ," she gasped, her hands on his head, buried in his hair. " _Fuck me_."

"I intend to. But first, you come," Quinn said. He sat back, rested his mouth. She looked up at him, at his eyes on her, dark with intensity. His fingers stayed inside her, inserted deeply. He turned his hand palm-up, and pressed both fingertips ahead, softly probing, feeling for an area inside that was a little rougher than the surrounding tissue. He found it, and incessantly applied pulsing pressure there. An entirely new wave of pleasure engulfed her, and she groaned, her face flushing red. Her hands clutched the bedclothes into bunches at her sides, and she tossed her head, delightful sounds coming from her lips. He'd heard her make those sounds before. _But this time_ , he thought jealously, _it's for me._

"Come on," he said, a quaver in his voice, on the very edge of self-control. "I want to see you."

Her eyes opened slightly to see him poised over her, his eyes on her face, her breasts. Quinn continued stroking her inside, the internal stimulation suddenly doubled by his other hand, which he used to quicken her clit and labia from the outside. She was wide open for him, she was _his_ , completely owned by sensation. His relentless assault brought her to the edge, over it, her veins pulsed with it, her ears filled with white noise. As she entered into a state of twilight consciousness, her vision shrank to black, and she eyed Quinn through a tunnel.

As inevitable as a hurricane making landfall, Carrie's orgasm seized her, gripped her, and held, her body clamping down on Quinn's fingers. She did scream, then: she had no control over her voice, her body. She was shattered to bits, calling out his name repeatedly as he kept up the pressure, stimulating her entire her pubic mound with a huge hand until she was sated, drawing out the climax for as long as he could. Then, he lay down on top of her, insinuating himself between her spread legs.

She held him, her chest heaving up and down, fingernails clawing into his shoulder blades. When she could finally speak, she had difficulty piecing a sentence together.

"Oh, God, Quinn, that was, that was…" Carrie said, a tear spilling out of her eye, running back into her hair.

"Yeah, it was," Quinn agreed, kissing her lips tenderly, just a feathery touch. The head of his cock was nudging into her entrance. _You only get one first time_ , he thought. He had anticipated this moment for years, and wanted to have perfect recall on how it felt. _Easy, easy,_ he told himself, _take it slow_. She was overstimulated already, and if _he_ didn't take it slow, it would be over in a few thrusts. Gradually, his shaft entered until he was lodged up to the hilt. As their bellies came into contact, Quinn kissed her cheeks, her eyelids. She started to weep quietly.

"You ok?" Quinn asked, pulling back a bit, worried. She nodded her head.

"Yeah," she said. "More than ok."

She thrust her hips up at him, encouraging movement.

"Harder, please," she panted, running her hands down to his ass, holding him in.

He couldn't answer. He built up the rhythm, accelerated the pace, now frantic to please her. Inside her, inside his mind; he somehow found a himself in a state of profound yearning that hadn't existed before, never in this life. In an agony of pleasure and anticipation, he thrust hard, then harder, rocking the bed. Some earthly tether came loose in his mind as he took her: images, sights and sounds trained through his head. Dark flags on a battlefield, Carrie in a white dress, standing at a cliff's edge; himself, falling, falling. He groaned, nearly at the pinnacle.

Her legs came up and wrapped around him. After only a few minutes, she started coming again, calling out for him, for God. He was going with her this time, there was no hindering it. He devoured her sweet mouth, thrusting his tongue in as his manhood did the same below, reaching the threshold and soaring over it. His ears filled with static as the blood rushed through him, through them both. Quinn let all of himself go, let everything go, into her.

His essence mixed with hers as his member softened. He panted, dropping his head to her shoulder. She was kissing his neck softly as they both descended from the apex. Neither of them could move.

Time passed. Water gurgled in the pipes, and somewhere outside, a car horn blared. None of it registered, not really. The only reality for Carrie was Quinn finally moving back, pulling out. A sense of loss stabbed through her as he left her body. He lay next to her, gathered her up in his arms, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

She reached up to inspect the cut from the knife fight.

"You ok?" she asked quietly.

"OK is not the word," he said, a wan smile on his face.

"I mean, did you hurt yourself?"

"No," he said, kissing her forehead.

"Because," she suggested, smoothing a hand over his belly. "I could be on top next time."

Quinn smiled. She wasn't freaking out. There _would_ be a next time. A feeling of peace had infused his body, and he didn't want to move.

"Alright," he said. "I'll take you up on that."

They rested for part of the long afternoon, the afterglow enveloping them both in a cocoon of well-being. Then Quinn reluctantly rose, and pulled some clothes on. Carrie sat up, the blanket rolling off her chest. He admired the view as she got up and dressed herself.

"I have to get back at it," she said.

"I know," Quinn said. "Me too."

She gave him a worried look as he sat down, and started to initialize the GPS units, and organized tools and adhesives for a quick installation. She dressed slowly, noticing a pleasant soreness in certain places, feeling utterly spent. When she was fully clothed, she went over to Quinn, and stood behind him. Reaching around, she put a hand over the GPS units, her other arm wrapped around Quinn's waist. He was so fucking stubborn that she had no real hope of convincing him otherwise, but she had to try.

"I really wish you weren't going back there," she said.

He didn't look back, just patted her hand where it pressed over his belly. He turned, and taking her in his arms, he held her close. She felt him kiss the top of her head.

"It's completely routine," he said, the tone of voice you'd expect from someone stepping out on a two day business trip, with nothing more dangerous than hotels and airports ahead of them.

"I should come with you. Backup," she said.

He shook his head, and walked over to the gun cases. He picked up the two sidearms, and sitting down on a stool, commenced his ritual of cleaning. He didn't have to look, or even think about it.

"Nope," he declared, his voice absolute. "More movement, more chance of detection. You stay, study the files. Try to find out which ones they didn't want you to see."

Carrie sighed. There was no dissuading him. After the lovemaking, she knew they'd crossed a border in their relationship, and there was no going back from that. But their essential personalities remained. Quinn would always be determined, obstinate, and focused on objectives. That was just who he was, and she loved that about him. It could also be maddening, depending on the circumstances.

The afternoon passed while she studied the files. They guzzled more coffee, and Quinn methodically got ready, cleaning his weapons. In the early evening, he gobbled a couple of antibiotic tablets and some painkillers. His recovery still wasn't complete, and so he lay down and napped, while Carrie continued to screen through the documents,

At midnight, he got up, pulled on a black hoodie, and started preparing to leave.

"Nothing I can say will talk you out of this?" she asked sadly as he was preparing to depart.

"Carrie, it's important. I'll be careful," Quinn said. He came up to the stool where she sat working, and stood behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders. There was so much more between them, so much unsaid, and so many things to live for, to return to. Her eyes closed, and she fought down the urge to cry. Turning her head, she grabbed his hand and kissed the palm. Then she stood, pulling him close in a tight embrace. He returned the hug, and held on.

Consciously letting go, stepping back, she released him to his work. "You better be _very_ fucking careful," she cautioned. Seeing him to the door, she opened it.

"Back before you know it," he said, surprisingly chipper.

Before she could say anything else, he disappeared into the night. Exhaling heavily, she shut and locked the door.


	20. Chapter 20

It was 1:00 AM in the Berlin neighborhood where the jihadi's hideout was located. Quinn sidled out of the alley leading into the courtyard outside Hussein's building, keeping to the shadows and doing his best not to make a sound. He had stopped and blacked his face from a tin he'd shoved into his hip pocket, so no light would glare back should someone shine a flashlight out into the street. He didn't know what they'd do if they saw face of an unknown man stealthing up on the cell's local headquarters, but it would probably involve death, or possibly disappearance for some other nefarious purpose. It _certainly_ would, once they recognized him as the "spy." He felt the reassuring pressure of his sidearm in the shoulder holster, and hoped he wouldn't be forced to use it. Better, he thought, to slip in and out, and then let Dar and his teams know that the GPS units were deployed, catch them on the move to somewhere else. He craned his neck around the corner of a brick building, to see if the truck was still there. It was.

The loading bay at the back was still open, the door rolled up and fixed in place. As Carrie had predicted, they now had a man outside, watching the truck. One of the jihadis had been posted outside the apartment stairs, and was reclining in a lawn chair, just far enough into the building's shadows that Quinn couldn't tell which one it was. Hopefully not the lieutenant, whatever his name was. That guy had cold eyes. He gave Quinn the creeps. He almost wished that Carrie had shot him.

Quinn looked around the square, trying to identify any new vehicles. An observation team from Dar or the BND, listening in on the transmitting unit he'd installed in the furnace vent, would have been a comforting presence. But he didn't see any cars that looked the type for surveillance, nor anything new he didn't recognize from his several days upstairs. As far as he could tell, he was the lone Westerner here.

He decided to take it very slowly, and use the cars parked at the curb for cover. He'd move closer to the truck, one car at a time, and if the guy on sentry duty called out or stood up, he'd know he was made, and split. He made sure of his path of egress before stepping lightly across the cracked and dirty concrete to the first car at the edge of the street, then waited a second before moving twelve feet closer to the box truck, hiding himself behind the second car. No movement, no noise. He squatted down and waited. If someone had seen him, most likely they'd call out, come to investigate. He'd hate to have to shoot to kill in this situation, when he knew that would foul up whatever plans he and Dar had around tracking them out to another location. But if he had to fire his weapon, so be it. He wasn't going to be sucked into a situation he had no control over: a hostage situation, or anything else which created a mortal hazard for him. He wanted this cell, but it wasn't worth his life. Not when Carrie needed him.

His mind cast back, involuntarily, over the sensations and feelings of the previous afternoon. Carrie, her eyes, her skin. Her lovely voice, golden hair in his hands. His stomach rolled over in anticipation. He couldn't wait to get back to her, see her and touch her again. And he knew she felt the same. All the more reason to complete this duty, get the units planted, and get the fuck out of here.

Quinn moved one car length closer to the box truck – only two cars more to go, until he was right next to his target. He kept his eyes trained on the sides of the truck, where the sentry would go around if he heard something suspicious. But nobody appeared. Quinn looked up, towards the apartment. That made him more nervous. The lights were off in there, and any or all of the other jihadis could be looking out of those windows, watching his approach. He wouldn't be able to see them. But no, if they were watching him approach, they'd have sounded the alarm. It was late at night, and they had set a sentry, expecting that would be enough. If he wanted to do this now, he'd have to take the chance that they were all asleep.

The only light on in the place was in Hussein's apartment. _No surprise there_ , Quinn thought. The good Samaritan probably had someone else in there, sleeping off an injury, or an illness. Or maybe the neighbor kid, Tarek , watching his TV while Hussein slept. The doctor was a genuinely good person, and Quinn wished fervently that he was located somewhere else, far away from the radical Islamists on the first floor.

But then, this was the reason he knew about these guys. Hussein's downstairs neighbors were very bad dudes, and if Quinn and the BND were able to track them and stop them doing something despicable, it would have been worth it. Hussein, as far as Quinn could tell, was so valuable as a local doctor that his safety was sacrosanct. It didn't hurt that he was also Muslim. Quinn wasn't worried about Hussein's well-being in the long run.

Quinn moved again, staying in the shadows of an ancient GTO, up on blocks in the back, rust peppering the rear quarter panel. He stooped and peered through the car windows, which were milky with age, like cataracts. He could make out the form of the individual who was posted as sentry. In the sentry's lap, he saw an item of clothing, and under it, there appeared to be a long object. Assault rifle? Shotgun? He had to assume so. He couldn't figure out why they'd left the back of the truck open. Lazy, still loading, or what?

He waited a good ten minutes for the situation to change, or resolve into something else. Eventually, he decided that he was as clear as he'd ever be for deployment. Taking the first GPS unit out of his pocket, he pulled the antenna, and stripped the protective covering off the adhesive patch on the side. Everything was ready.

Silent as a hunting jaguar, Quinn crawled close to the box truck, keeping in line with the tire, so that nobody on the far side would have direct line of sight for his movement. He crawled under the truck, and holding a red LED penlight between his teeth, and aimed the scarlet beam up under the truck. He located a point above the front axle that was unlikely to be examined by anyone, unless the truck was up on a lift. Using the tips of his fingers, he pressed the adhesive of the unit to the bottom of the box truck. One down. Time for the insurance unit, he thought.

Quinn took down the penlight, and pocketed it. He didn't move for a few minutes, waiting to see if anyone would come to investigate, or shout anything out. He listened very closely, and after a few moments, he heard something. He listened harder. What was that repetitive sound? After a moment, he identified it – and had to grapple for control of himself: he nearly snorted laughter when he realized the watchman was sound asleep, and the repetitive sound was his quiet snoring. _Great night crew you've got here_ , he thought.

Quinn crawled to the other end of the truck, reached into his pocket, and removed the other unit. He had just removed the backing from the adhesive and was preparing to turn the penlight up under the rear axle, when a loud bang came from the front door of Hussein's building, followed by an aggravated voice, shouting insults. He controlled his startle movements well – in fact, he didn't move a muscle – but his heart rate went up. Way up. _Shit_ , he thought _. I was almost done._

He held utterly still as he heard the sentry jump to his feet. The item the sentry had been holding in his lap clattered to the sidewalk. Quinn's Arabic was rusty, but he certainly heard the tones of derision in the loud lecturing. He was just able to see out of the crack between the tire and the truck body, and now recognized the scolding individual as the lieutenant that had tried to take him back in. The sleeping sentry was a young man who the lieutenant identified as Qasim, the guy he'd ordered to help remove Zayd's body. Qasim bent to pick up his jacket, apologizing profusely. Quinn was able to see that the long, thin object on Qasim's lap had not been a firearm of any kind, but a baseball bat.

Quinn heard Qasim apologize again to the lieutenant, who he called "Bibi". That was good to know. Now, if he could only be sure that they weren't going to come inspect the truck. Bibi gestured angrily at the vehicle, and also at the front door of the property. He heard Bibi call Qasim "cousin," and threaten to slap his face if he did so much as look away for the rest of the night.

Qasim, still apologizing, put on his jacket and laid down the baseball bat. Again, Quinn had trouble making out the words, but Qasim was gesturing apologetically at the front door of the building. Bibi waved dismissively at the door, and to Quinn's profound relief, both of them walked up the front steps and disappeared inside.

Partially letting out a breath of relief, Quinn mounted the second unit, and used the opportunity to crawl out from under the truck on the far side, away from the door. Both units were deployed and operational. Now, all he had to do was get the hell out of there. He crawled out from under the truck, listening for the door. After a quick look around, he stealthed to the far side of the line of parked cars. Using them for cover, he retreated one car length at a time, as quickly as he could.

He could still hear the sounds of Bibi berating Qasim for his poor performance as night watchman. _You don't know the half of it, buddy_ , Quinn thought. Half a block down from the truck, Quinn took a moment to make for an alley, essentially completing his escape.

He stopped there and turned, chancing a look back at the front of the jihadi's building. He saw Qasim emerge from the front door, moving in a way that suggested he'd been shoved outside, barking complaints back up the staircase at Bibi, who snapped the door shut behind him. In his hand, Qasim carried a can of Coca-Cola. Affronted, he sat back down in the lawn chair, back on watch, the baseball bat across his lap. Quinn heard the crack-hiss of the can opening, all the way across the quiet courtyard. _The pause that refreshes,_ Quinn thought, a wicked smile covering his face. If he only knew that his little piss break and beverage run allowed the evil _kuffar_ to install a tracking device on their truck, he'd shit a brick. Both of them would.

Quinn turned down the alley, and quietly started to boogie for the hideout. He had been very careful and incredibly stealthy, and so it had taken several hours. Carrie would be worried. He didn't want her to worry about him – they'd had enough hardship already, from all sources, all sides.

With his luck, the truck was going on a milk run tomorrow, and would be used for nothing more evil than to run medical supplies, infant formula or pita bread. But if they were really up to no good, at least the good guys would have an eye on them.

Quinn stopped into a all-night petrol station with an outdoor bathroom. Inside, he wiped the blacking off his face with a paper towel. He liked what he saw emerging in the mirror – a guy Carrie wanted to be with. And he was still a guy who killed bad guys – or at least got the drop on them.

Cleaned up and feeling the rush from a covert job that had been well done, Quinn hustled out of the gas station, and disappeared into the city nightscape like smiling shadow.


	21. Chapter 21

It was impossible, Carrie thought.

She stood and put her hands on her lower back, and walking to the front door of the hideout, she put her eye to the peephole. It was impossible to focus on something other than Quinn's absence and danger during this operation, and with the length of time he'd been gone, she was starting to be totally preoccupied. Was he alive or dead? Captured, killed, or God only knew? She never should have let him go alone.

It was also starting to feel impossible to filter through these documents. Someone in the Russian intel organization thought she ought to die rather than see something here. But what? There was too much to go through, she thought, and it was too diverse. She'd been over more than a third of it, and still, nothing stuck out as something worth killing over. _Maybe worth killing someone else_ , Carrie thought, _but not me._

She sat back down, exhaling a long breath. Three A.M., and still no Quinn. She forced her attention back to the computer, and read over the next document on the list. Was she sorting them wrong, making it harder for herself? What was the likelihood that the very oldest documents held anything of import? She'd been with the agency a long time, now, though. The very oldest documents still covered her tenure.

 _No_ , she thought. _That doesn't make sense._ She had been right to start with the most recent documents, and work her way back. These were the things she would remember the best.

Quds forces. Siberian oil pipelines. Chechens fighting for Russia in the Ukraine – with other Chechens fighting on the opposite side. What a bizarre piece of work that had been. But there was nothing here about anything she'd been directly linked to. It was befuddling.

One more, and she'd make some more of that horrible coffee, she told herself. She flipped to the next document, and her eyes widened as a word jumped out at her. _Oriole_. God, was that ancient history! Oriole had been her code name when she'd been stationed in Baghdad, when she'd been the primary contact for Samir Khalil and others in the ministry of justice, working as Carrie Orser on one of her first assignments.

"Oriole…" she muttered, squinting at the screen. "Given Oriole's pariah status…" _Pariah_. _What the fuck?_ _When was this?_

As it turned out, the message was recent. Samir Khalil had put up a signal flare within the last six months. The only way to get the information that should have been passed directly from Khalil to Carrie, was to call him herself.

She jumped up out of the chair, got the burner phone. Dug through her stuff for a moment before she remembered, _shit_. I don't even have my own computer. Where the hell am I going to get the contact information?

Ever resourceful, Carrie made another quick search of the documents Saul had given her. She turned up a phone directory and a summary of all the people that had ever worked with Carrie Orser and Allison Stevens at Baghdad Station. Ah, the memories, she thought, flipping through the names. Carrie had come into the station that summer, on one of her very first overseas assignments. Carrie smirked, remembering her father's protests as she'd started her career in the foreign service. He'd sent so many letters to George Tennant – all of which had been forwarded to Saul – that he'd got himself on a watch list. It had been no joke to Carrie at the time, but in retrospect, it was amusing. Her Dad had been a piece of work.

She found Samir's phone number on the list, a resource from the Iraqi interior ministry. She tapped the complex series of numbers that allowed her to direct dial a number in the Middle East. After a pregnant pause, the phone began to ring, a faraway-sounding soft double-tone. Finally, after eight rings, a female voice answered.

"Do you speak English?" she started. If whoever answered didn't know the language, there wouldn't be any point in proceeding. But the voice answered softly.

"A little, yes."

"I'm trying to reach Samir Khalil," Carrie said. "Is he there? The Interior Ministry gave me this number."

"He is not here," the woman said shyly. Not a girl, but young, Carrie thought.

"Is this Dunya?" she asked, plumbing her memory for the names of Samir's daughters.

"No."

"Shatha, then," Carrie said confidently.

"Yes." The young lady sounded wary, alarm bells having been set off by a stranger uttering her name.

"Shatha, my name is Carrie Orser," she said, stating the pseudonym she'd used all through her Iraq assignment. "I knew your father many years ago. We worked together trying to rebuild the justice sector in Iraq. It's really important that I speak with him."

"He is not here."

"But this is his number, right?"

There was a pause, and then, the quiet hiss of an empty line. The girl had broken the connection. _Shit_. But it was a start. She needed to speak to Samir. But what was she supposed to do? She had only a few numbers to work with, and being hunted here in Berlin didn't put her in the best position to call in her contacts. Who would she call, if he didn't call back? Saul? If he was out of custody, maybe. Who the fuck knew how that was going, or how long it would last? Astrid? Not unless she had to. Allison, maybe?

It would all be so much easier if she wasn't so fucking tired. Worry about Quinn had kept her awake so far, but it was already going on four AM. _Oriole_. Who could she ask for Samir's contact information? She blinked, and tried to focus her eyes. It had been too long since he'd left, too long since she talked to Samir. She turned her head, and laid it on her folded arms. She ought to lay on the bed, but she didn't want to encourage herself to take a long rest. She closed her eyes for what felt like a second. An hour or so later, she was awakened by the buzz of the iPhone's vibrating ring, dancing on the counter next to her head.

Blearily, Carrie focused on the screen. Unknown number. She thumbed the call open.

"Carrie! Darling! My little Oriole," a voice cried. Samir Khalil's booming baritone made the connection sound like he was across the street.

In spite of her incipient neckache from sleeping sitting up, a smile spread across Carrie's face. "How are you, Samir?" she asked. "Are you well?"

"Okay," Samir admitted.

"Just okay?"

"Well, I have the misfortune to suffer in my back. It's all those years sitting on the bench. All those years in Saddam's prison. Anyway, I haven't been anywhere near the courtroom since 2009," Khalil admitted.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Carrie said sadly. She felt genuine regret – Samir had been one of the truly fair judges in Iraq's justice system, an honest man in a corrupt hornet's nest of intrigue. He had been governed by his conscience and an innate sense of justice. In that way, they were alike. He was lucky to be alive, after all those years in the regime.

"Don't be. The rule of law is finished here," Khalil said, his voice stony.

Carrie sighed, then asked her question regarding the document. "Five months ago, you tried to contact me, Samir."

"Yes. I put up a distress rocket, but heard nothing back."

Carrie's eyebrows went up in disbelief.

"Nothing?" she insisted.

"Well, not really nothing. I had a crash visit from some comedian called Smith or Jones," Samir scoffed.

"And what did you tell him?"

"That I would only talk to you," Samir said sincerely. "I wanted you, Carrie. But from you I heard nothing, not a word."

Carrie rolled her eyes. So many assets had been left in the cold, no doubt, because of her rapid exit from the Agency. That wasn't her fault, but she felt responsible.

"Oriole was on the shelf, Samir. Oriole had flown the coop."

Samir chuckled. "Someone might have told me," he said. "Don't you think? Instead, I'm sitting here and waiting for the phone to ring."

Carrie led him back to the point. "What did you want to tell me?" she asked.

"Remember the name Ahmed Nazari, by any chance?" Samir asked.

"Yeah, of course. The lawyer," she said, drawing him out.

"The Creep of the Year, fabricator, the bribe taker and intelligence peddler," Samir finished. Carrie smiled. He was right on all counts. Then she frowned, remembering.

"He died, as I remember," she said. "In the bombing at the Ministry of Justice."

"No."

"Oh, he did, Samir. I'm fairly certain," Carrie insisted.

"Well, then he's risen from the dead," Khalil said dryly.

"What do you mean?" Carrie asked, pacing the hideout's floor in a large figure eight.

"Why I put up the rocket," Samir said patiently. "I saw him one morning, walking the neighborhood. I'd heard his father had been ill."

Carrie frowned. "You sure it was him?"

"Up so close," Khalil breathed, "that I could smell his cologne."

Samir and Carrie reiterated the details, asked about family, exchanged some pleasantries, and then hung up. _Holy shit._ Only a nine-minute phonecall, and the whole picture of where she was had changed. Oriole had been summoned, and this information had been deliberately hidden from her. Then, she suspected, someone had tried to have her killed to prevent her seeing it. Every one of her instincts pointed her in that direction.

She'd been out of the Agency six months ago, but still. It wasn't unheard of for Agents who were under disclosure agreements to do a soft handoff to another agent, thus keeping the relationship sound. For example, that was how Allison had tried to hand Ahmed Nazari off to her, back in Baghdad, all those years ago. She'd been new on the job, but able and willing. The handoff hadn't been a raving success, though. Something about the relationship between Nazari and Allison had been odd, off-putting. She never had been able to put her finger on it.

Now, after two years of peaceful non-existence, Nazari made one hell of a lively corpse walking around his father's old neighborhood. And someone wanted Carrie dead, rather than have her know this. How the hell was she doing to locate him, and make sure? She could ask Allison. Or maybe there was someone else?

She slumped, almost sick with exhaustion. The late night got the better of her, and she sank back into the chair. 4:30 A.M., and Quinn still wasn't back. She was beginning to feel ill with worry, but fatigue overtook her. Laying her head down on her folded arms, she told herself again that she'd just be resting her eyes. But sleep crept up on her blind side, and bagged her.

She didn't hear the key in the door lock, nor the sound of Quinn entering and locking it behind him. She had relaxed, sleeping sitting up, swaybacked in the chair. Her folded arms were going numb as she slept, her head resting on them heavily. She didn't hear him slip up, or feel his hands fall lightly on her shoulders, or his lips touch the back of her neck, a butterfly kiss.

She finally woke to Quinn's arms twining around her from behind, wrapping around her belly, lifting her right off the chair, turning her to face him. She came completely out of slumber and gave a cry of surprise as he lifted her feet off the ground. Her arms went up over his shoulders, her feet swinging below like a child's as he held her and buried his face in her neck.

" _Quinn_. Where the fuck were you? Jesus Christ, I was worried," she uttered. She relaxed, let him hold her up. He was so tall in comparison, she felt like she was riding a swing. He walked across the room towards the bed with her in his arms, not letting her feet touch the floor. He said nothing, just holding her, letting her legs swing like a pendulum from his strong frame, light as a feather.

Finally, he set Carrie down, and pressed her shoulders so she'd sit on the side of the bed. He sat next to her, and the two of them sank gratefully back together, arms around each other, pivoting so their heads could share the pillow.

"I'm ok," he said. "I was careful." He placed a delicate kiss on her temple, a gesture so tender that it made her eyes prickle with tears.

"You fucking well better be," she said, but with no aggressive tone at all. Her eyes were still shut, and he was stroking her hair down like a kitten.

Quinn described his operation, his success. "I forwarded the information to Dar, and got a text back. They have a team monitoring the cell now."

"So you're done?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm done with them."

"Good. So now you can help me." Quinn gave a wry smile. From one thing, right to the next. Carrie never did have a problem asking him for help, he considered, not even in their very first weeks together. In a few minutes, she'd described the "Oriole" document, her relationship with Samir Khalil, and her recent calls with him and his daughter.

They had been lying side by side on the bed. Quinn leaned upon his elbow, looking down at Carrie. He used his free hand to stroke her fair hair downward, over her shoulders, smoothing it and straightening it, feeling the silky texture. Passing his hand over the lovely swell of her breast, in doing so. He felt like he'd come home.

"So, you need to figure out if this guy's really alive, and if so, where he is."

"Yes, Quinn, I need that badly. I was thinking I'd ask Otto to hook me up with the hacktivist, the source. Via Laura Sutton."

"That blowbag. No fucking way," Quinn pronounced.

"We could do it from Otto's house. He said he'd have us," she suggested.

"He said he'd have _you_ ," Quinn said, a thread of jealousy in his tone.

Frustrated, she tried to sit up, only to feel Quinn's huge paw press her shoulder backward, maintaining her reclining position. He went back to stroking her hair. "You have a better idea?" she asked, irritated.

"Yeah. We go to Astrid first," Quinn said.

Carrie shook her head. "She doesn't like me very much, Quinn."

He looked at her, his eyes holding her glance. His hand moved to her neck, then her chin, up to her ears and then digging his fingers into her hair, stroking and soothing. She'd do it for me," he said, sounding somewhat reluctant.

"Oh, I bet she would," Carrie snarked, enjoying his mild embarrassment. "I wonder why."

Quinn smiled, catching the upturn in her mood.

"Yeah, well," he said. "That's the effect I have on women."

"Oh, really? Mind control?"

"It's a speciality of mine," he said. "Let me show you."

Tired as he was, his eyes sparkled. He bent to her neck, his lips exploring the soft landscape below her ear, down to her neckline. And his hand – oh, his hand was very warm, and suddenly very intimately placed. Carrie breathed out, finally relaxing, giving herself over to his touch.

"Yeah, show me," she sighed.


End file.
